


with great outbursts and lightnings

by LilaDiurne



Series: Bodies of Water [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Anxiety, Clubbing, Depression, Drinking, Explicit Language, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Infidelity, Insecurities, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Teacher/Student Relationship, Past Underage, Pining, Sexual Content, Strangers to Lovers, Toxic Relationships, Violinist Harry, Writer Severus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-02-23 03:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 148,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13181586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilaDiurne/pseuds/LilaDiurne
Summary: They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. Harry has developed smoking to an art form that fascinates Severus. Everyone smokes in Paris, but he’s never taken up the habit himself. Watching Harry smoke, however, is strangely erotic. It feels like watching something that ought to be done in private. He wants to say something, anything, but he’s speechless. He’s a bloody poet, and here he is, standing speechless in front of a nineteen-year-old boy.In which Severus is a semi-famous poet with writer's block who moves back to London after the death of his lover and meets Harry, a prodigy struggling with his own demons.





	1. two syllables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Suddenly, the strangest feeling comes over him. He barely manages to stop the confusion from showing on his face as the strongest impression of déjà vu he’s ever experienced washes over him. For a fraction of a second, he’s convinced beyond doubt that he’s stood in this exact spot before, in the middle of Lupin’s living room, reaching out to shake hands with this boy. Has Severus seen him before? Is that what it is? No. No, he can’t possibly have seen him before. He would remember him... Severus would never forget such a face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been working on this story on and off for three years or so, and I wasn’t even really planning to publish it. I just needed to get it out of my system. But here we are. It was supposed to be a short one-shot, but as I was building it, it just grew and grew and became this massive fucking thing that grew even more because of my terrible habit of self-analysis that rubbed off on poor Severus.
> 
> This fanfic is part one, of I’m not sure how many.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND EDITED ON 01-01-2019.

 

 

* * *

 

 

-1-  
**two syllables**

 

 _You shouldn’t have come here, made of fireworks,_  
_if you didn’t want me to play with fire._  
_I need a light._

IAIN S. THOMAS

 

* * *

 

 _London_  
_March 2013_

 

Severus wakes up late, clutching the sheets around his body, curled up as if he’d been repeatedly kicked in the stomach while he slept. Eyes still shut, unwilling to face reality just yet, he chases sleep as far as he can. It comes and goes for an hour or so and then it’s gone, leaving behind unidentifiable wisps of dreams.

When finally he opens his eyes, it’s already past noon, the bedroom is drenched in sunlight, and the pillow wet against his cheek.

He remembers the appointment at once. It’s at three o’clock. The thought of it has hovered on the surface of his conscience all night. Even though last night he thought he’d decided he wasn’t going to go, now that there’s still time to make it, he feels obliged. It makes him shiver, as he always does when nervous, because the prospect of telling his woes to a stranger is more daunting than ever.

He had hoped to somehow sleep through it, so he wouldn’t have to make the decision. The hour would have come and gone while he slept on, completely unaware. Afterwards, he could have managed to convince himself that it was too bad, that it was an accident, that it would be for another time.

There would have been no other time. He has become an illustrious coward.

He’s been back in London two weeks. Two weeks gone by in a haze. Two weeks of sleeping because it’s all he can tolerate to do. Two weeks of sleeping and waking, but not really. Of walking around the flat like a ghost and eating because he must, chewing tasteless food he orders in because he hates this place but at the same time can’t stand to leave it.

Lying on his back, he watches with weary eyes the uneven patch of daylight on the ceiling, and in a rare moment of bravery – or clarity, perhaps – he decides that he will go. He will get himself out of this bed and he will make his way to that wretched office even if he has to crawl all the way there on bloody knees.

He’s been wallowing in self-pity long enough. Today is the start of something new.

It’s a promise he’s made before. But he means to keep it this time.

On the bedside table, as if on cue, his phone starts to vibrate. He promptly ignores it, shifting onto his side and away from the insistent buzzing. It only adds to the apprehension, making his insides flutter nauseatingly, and he represses the urge to knock it off the table.

He’s fairly certain it’s Marine calling. Again.

He can sense her name on the screen, see it without looking, along with that little picture of her from two summers ago. Face caught in a beam of sunlight, flirty smile and a silly straw hat.

He doesn’t answer. She’ll leave a message and he resolves to listen to it later, along with all the others.

Maybe.

There’s a tiny pinprick of a hole in the wall, where a canvas used to hang – a bland reproduction of an already boring Monet that he threw away at first sight – and he stares at it. He takes deep breaths.

He will not have a panic attack. Not today. Today is meant to be different.

It’s almost one when he finally extricates himself from bed and makes his way along the corridor and into the bathroom.

He hates this bloody bathroom. All crispness and mirrors, bright lights and nowhere to hide.

Even though there’s really no time, he runs himself a bath and avoids his reflection as he strips, still shivering, body heavy with sleep. He makes the water scorching, as hot as he can physically endure, and sinking into it is like slipping out of nothingness and into existence. It’s like being wrapped in someone’s embrace, like turning into something concrete, something that can feel. Something that can be hurt, yes, but also soothed.

He often has this unshakable feeling of becoming invisible. It comes as suddenly as those waves of panic he’s become so accustomed to, but it’s more like a numbness, an inevitability. A certain dread that something is coming for him with the sole purpose of engulfing him in shadows, of erasing him. It makes him want to run and hide.

In those moments, he can’t help but wonder. With no one to see him, no one to touch him, does he still exist?

Sometimes he’s scared of dying and no one finding out.

For a quarter of an hour, as the water slowly cools around him, Severus slips back into life.

Emerging from the tub, however, is even more painful than getting out of bed. There is a weight that wasn’t there before, like his insides have turned to lead, like he’s being held back, like the planet’s gravity has shifted to focus entirely on his body.

Heat radiates from his skin, and yet the cold is still there. It runs deeper, embedded in his bones.

Often, at night, he thinks about sandstorms.

He likes to imagine himself standing in the middle of a vast, scorching desert full of heavy winds, and let the sand whip his skin like burning needles.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection as he rises from the tub and he can’t look away fast enough.

The gaze that meets his in the mirror is that of a pale-faced, bearded stranger, and he finds himself unable to avert his eyes. It feels like a trick, like he’s standing on one side of a glass wall and someone who bears him an uncanny resemblance stands on the other, mimicking his every move.

But then, the more he stares at this stranger, the more familiar his features become. Eyes so dark you can barely see the pupils. Thick eyebrows that seem constantly frowned no matter how hard he might try to soften their expression. A large nose that crooks slightly to the left. Angular cheekbones.

Yes, if he squints he can see it. This is the face of Severus Prince. When he blinks, it blinks also. When he tries to smile, it stretches its lips painfully in a sort of grimace that doesn’t reach its eyes.

He prepares to shave, as respectable men do before important appointments. He gets everything ready: the brush, the oil, the cream, and his trusty old razor. But he can’t bring himself to begin. His fingers hover over it all, pale and trembling, his gaze never leaving that of the man in the mirror.

Black eyes, still half a stranger’s, stare back at him, impassive. And he realises then that shaving would only unveil more familiar traits, reveal the sharp lines and angles of his jaw, accentuate the thinness of his lips.

No, no shaving today. He’s quite content looking unlike himself for the time being.

He leaves everything on the counter and heads back to the bedroom, shivering still.

He dresses slowly, in clothes that have been thrown in a suitcase and then thrown in drawers haphazardly, clothes slightly wrinkled but clean. Trousers and a button-down shirt.

He takes his time, hoping, deep down, that making himself late will give him an excuse not to go out.

If only the weather would cooperate, he could simply convince himself that braving torrential rain isn’t worth it. But the sun is shining.

Still, how easy it would be to just slip back into bed. No need to undress. He could just fall back in, let gravity do the job. Maybe even sleep some more if he tried hard enough.  
He ends up leaving the bedroom in a hurry. The temptation is just too great, and he can’t trust himself with anything anymore.

The flat suits Severus’ current appearance. It is a stranger’s, picked out and furnished by a young woman’s voice on the phone.

He’s on the top floor of an old warehouse building turned into ‘luxury apartments’. The architecture is pleasing: hardwood floors and walls of exposed brick with wide windows. The furniture is stylish: thick carpet and comfortable sofa in relaxing shades of beige, and a kitchen with a large island and a wooden table that’s too long and has too many chairs that he’ll never be able to fill with people. And there’s this cushioned seat near the living-room window where he particularly likes to curl up. But nothing here means anything to him. The books on the shelves are an odd amalgam of classic literature and bestselling thrillers, and the art on the walls is generic and dull.

Nothing about it feels luxurious to him.

He spends so much time staring out the window, debating whether he should really go out, changing his mind and then changing it again, that by the time he finally makes his decision, he has barely half an hour left.

He rushes towards the tube.

In the carriage, Severus leans back against the closed doors, keeping his eyes down, letting himself be rocked softly by the rhythm of the train.

It doesn’t take very long, however, for the familiar, ever-present feeling of dread to swim back to the surface.

He’s gotten so used to being invisible that the alien feeling of being amongst others is too much to bear. It feels as though all eyes are on him. He can feel their gazes without looking. He can feel them read his every thought, see his life and feel what he feels.

And he feels that they enjoy his suffering.

He takes deep breaths, forbidding himself to look up. He will not snap at them. He will not become one of those neurotics who randomly yell at people on the train.

_Don’t look up. There’s no need to. You’re just imagining things. There’s no one looking at you. They don’t know, they can’t possibly know. You’re just being paranoid. Just hold on, you’re getting off at the next station. It’ll all be over soon._

He takes more deep breaths, ready to bolt out the doors the moment they open.

As he finally steps out of the tube at Monument, Severus allows himself a moment to gather his wits. People walk by without taking any notice and relief floods through him.

_See, you were just imagining things. Everything will be fine._

The building he’s looking for is one of those weirdly-shaped skyscrapers that seem to have grown like weeds all around the city during his absence. He spots it easily enough and walks fast towards it.

The office is on the thirtieth floor. As he stands across the street, waiting for the crossing light to turn, he looks up at where he imagines it to be, one of countless narrow windows reflecting the bright, mid-afternoon sky.

Then he makes the mistake of glancing at his watch and realises he’s already ten minutes late.

They are expecting him up there, waiting for him. There is a pretty receptionist waiting to greet him, to hang his overcoat. And in the next room, there is a leather armchair, ready for him to sink nervously into it.

And just like that, his great resolution dissolves and Severus changes his mind. He swiftly walks away, head down, avoiding people’s straying gazes like a schoolboy cutting class. He tries to be reasonable and straightens up. It’s not like everyone can tell he’s just decided to ditch his new therapist. Nobody cares about that sort of thing.

And it’s too late anyway, he’s already walking away. He will live with the consequences. Surely nothing more than a voicemail informing him that he’s failed to make his appointment.

The more he thinks about it, he doesn’t need a new therapist after all. The old one in Paris hasn’t helped much. Besides, the main reason he decided to return to London was to start over.

What if he’s spent the first few weeks back living like a hermit, neglecting his personal hygiene and avoiding other human beings? This sort of thing happens to everyone, doesn’t it? Everyone needs to rest eventually. Especially after moving to another country. And he is up and about now, isn’t he?

He will be fine. There will be no need for therapy in this new life.

The way he sees it, if he’s managed to get through the last eight months without offing himself, he will be just fine.

He starts heading back to the station, but the thought of returning to the flat stops him dead in his tracks. There is an annoyed grunt from behind, and a man in a grey suit walks around him, cursing under his breath and shooting a dark glance over his shoulder. Severus ignores him.

He stands on the pavement, hesitant. He thinks about the flat and his bed, too large and constantly unmade, with its cold, ruffled sheets. He thinks about the walls, their whiteness, and that tiny hole, the spot he fixes his eyes upon when he feels himself slipping. And for all the comfort the place has brought him – was it really comfort? – he doesn’t want to spend one more minute in there. For the time being, at least. He fears if he sets foot back in the flat now, he will never come out again.

He simply cannot spend any more time hiding from the world and staring at a piece of wall. He turns sharply and enters the first shop he comes across.

He finds himself in a café, with dark walls, wooden tables and chairs, and a barista who raises his head as Severus barges in, almost tripping over the doorsill.

It’s one of those places that sells a panoply of sugary, whip-cream and syrup-based drinks, but Severus supposes he might as well order something and awkwardly steps up to the counter.

Perfectly conscious that he’s in unfamiliar territory, he tries to look confident and just orders the biggest size latte they have.

The young man picks up a paper cup and a black, felt-tip marker and looks at Severus expectantly. “What’s your name?” he asks.

Severus glances around, frowning. “I doubt that’s necessary. I’m the only one in line.”

“Gee. Sorry for asking,” the barista says indifferently.

Severus stand by the counter to wait. There’s soft music playing and everyone present is quietly minding their own business. The most commotion comes from a table of students seemingly working on a school project.

No one seems to notice him. He’s become invisible again.

He takes out his phone and tries not to look at the time, because doing so would undoubtedly bring the appointment to mind, and he tries not to look at all the unread and unanswered messages either, so he ends up just flipping between the screens in a mix of boredom and nervousness until his order is ready.

The paper cup reads _Grumpy McFrowny_ in elegant cursive.

He takes it with a deadly stare and the barista looks back at him with equal coldness before cracking up a smile.

Severus sits near the window with his back to the counter, knowing very well that otherwise he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from staring at the young man, whose smile is quite lovely. The drink is decent enough, scalding hot, and the heat sends tremors of delight down into his shivering bones.

As he sits, watching the passers-by on the street, a strange feeling of satisfaction settles in his chest. It’s pathetic, despite the missed appointment – he’s decided to use the word ‘missed’ instead – how proud he feels of having stepped outside. But he’s reached a point where he has to celebrate the small victories.

Should he push his luck and try to get some writing done while he’s at it?

The journal he takes out of his bag was a gift. Genuine leather, with his initials in elegant silver lettering on the cover. The spine is worn from being opened repeatedly, the edges of the pages crinkled from being flipped through, the cover scratched from being carried around. But the pages, all of them, are completely blank.

The truth is, Severus has never had such a dry spell in his life before.

He hasn’t written a single word for going on two years.

In his defence, it’s not because he hasn’t tried. At first, he would go to bed every night with the absolute certainty that the next day this hell would end. And he would sit before his typewriter in the morning, ready to let the words flow. Only they didn’t. Now he rarely bothers anymore, and the typewriter has been collecting dust, like a relic from a lost epoch. He’s left it in its familiar spot at the old place and thinks about it from time to time, bitterly. The new flat has a computer that he’s barely touched. He’s nearly lost all hope, but there’s still this one journal that he keeps carrying around, just in case a verse, a rhyme, a fragment of a poem comes to mind.

He could always, as a last resort, recycle himself into a novelist. Hell, maybe he could even write about his own life.

God knows there’s material enough in the person of his father to fuel a good thousand pages.

He could write it all. All of it. Starting with the miserable town of Cokeworth, and the even more miserable house on Spinner’s End. Then the people who lived there: his father, Tobias Snape, an angry drunk; and his mother, thin and willowy Eileen, who was too scared to stand up to him. Then there was scrawny little Severus, who was constantly terrified, who was home-schooled and didn’t have any friends. His father didn’t believe women should be allowed to earn a living, he thought his wife’s place was at home, so home she stayed and taught her son from old, out-of-date textbooks.

But even if he’d attended school, Severus doesn’t think it would have made a big difference. He was reserved and solitary in nature, his home situation made him uncommonly secretive, and he had yet to master the art of getting along with other children.

Maybe it was better he stayed home, too. That way no one could see the bruises.

Over the years, all of this has become unreal, like a blurry, damaged home movie featuring strangers. Even in his nightmares, Severus feels detached, unaffected, like he’s just witnessing the horror.

He doesn’t remember every detail of it, but he could easily improvise. It was always the same. He can’t even recall what exactly would happen to make his father mad, he didn’t need a reason most of the time. He would come home from the mill, or the pub, and he would find things to get mad about. And no matter what she did, not matter how small she tried to make herself, Severus’ mother would always be in the way.

Writing about his mother would be the hardest.

She died when he was eight years old, and his memories of her have been fading ever since. What he could write about is her absence. Pages and pages about the emptiness she left in his life, and about the dread, the infinite dread of being left alone with his father. Like being dragged headfirst into a pit. But Severus was lucky for the first time in his life. His grandparents came for the funeral, and they took him away to live with them.

He remembers them still as he saw them that day, for the very first time.

Twin silhouettes in the doorway of the house, one holding onto the arm of the other, pale daylight behind them. His grandmother in one of her austere dresses, and his grandfather in his beloved fedora.

Ironically enough, along with most of the family, they had fallen out of touch with his mother over her choice of husband.

All these years later, Severus can’t help but wonder if what was left of his mother’s pride had stopped her from seeking their help. If she had endured the abuse all these years simply not to let her family know they had been right all along.

To say this was the beginning of a very different life for him would be an understatement. One day he was living in a dreary world of bricks and smoke, fear and guilt, and the next he was thrown into the midst of the London aristocracy, wearing silk pyjamas and drinking his tea out of delicate china.

They changed his name to theirs, to Prince, to separate him from his ‘distasteful parasite of a father’ – his grandmother’s very words. And they sent him to school, a prestigious establishment in the heart of the city, a family tradition of sorts which his grandfather had attended, as well as his mother, her two brothers, and all of Severus’ cousins.

He could write about all this, but he refuses to. And he refuses to because if he starts this story, he will have to finish it. And one thing leading to another, it will all lead back to the very place he doesn’t want to go.

A little bookstore in Paris. Eyes meeting across rows of old, dusty paperbacks. A smile and a knowing look.

The beginning of another story he doesn’t care to get into again. Because that one doesn’t have a happy ending.

 _It takes an ocean not to break_ , a voice softly sings from the speakers.

And so, Severus ends up doing absolutely nothing. The journal remains empty. He hasn’t even brought a book to keep him company. He just sits and drinks, looking out the window.

He orders two more lattes and stops only when his heart starts trembling inside his chest from the caffeine he isn’t used to anymore.

It also may or may not have something to do with the fact that the last drink is made by a different barista and just doesn’t taste as good as the first two. The young man seems to have left without Severus noticing, and he barely manages to convince himself he isn’t bothered by it.

He finally takes his messages, more out of boredom than any real interest.

Six of them are from Marine, each more worried and annoying than the one before. Once again, he feels this old guilt, this feeling that other people care infinitely more about him than he does about them.

The emails are countless – agent, editor, publishers, magazines, newsletters...

One is from Fabrice, friendly but brief, carefully inquisitive, with mentions of the weather, of an old movie he watched the other day. Severus is more than certain Marine prompted him to send this, but Fabrice being a man of few words, he appreciates the effort nonetheless.

There is even one from Loïc, his landlady’s son, a bright young man with a passion for literature and philosophy with whom he used to chat on the stairs. He wishes Severus all the best in London and asks for his opinion on a passage from _Zarathustra_ for a dissertation.

His is the only message Severus replies to.

Just as he’s about to close his inbox, a new email pops up. It’s from Étienne this time.

 _Look what I found_ , the object says, and there’s something in attachment.

Severus deletes the message without opening it. Then he goes into the trash and deletes it there, too. Just in case.

He sits alone, letting the hours pass by. The lowering sun spreads gold on the upper parts of the surrounding buildings. The other barista, not the handsome one, changes the music to something more upbeat, and just as a crowd of agitated young people walk in, Severus decides it’s time for him to leave.

But the day hasn’t been such a total wreck. Surprisingly. Maybe he shouldn’t go home just yet. Maybe he should allow himself a stroll through London, like he used to do all the time years ago, when he was still young and full of dreams, when he still longed for Paris. It used to make him happy, maybe it will again now.

He leaves the café and starts walking.

He’s always loved how the old mixes with the new in this part of the city. Skyscrapers stretch up higher than steeples, sculpted stone facades tucked in between walls of glass and steel. The architecture here has a certain kind of aesthetic you just can’t seem to find anywhere else.

The familiar smells on the air, the stray rays of sunlight peeking through the buildings, the cool breeze on his face ignite something in Severus, a hint of a pleasant feeling.

Albeit small, this sudden spark is the closest to happiness he’s felt in months.

A flock of pigeons take flight and he follows their reflection in the glass displays of a series of small shops, when he catches a familiar glimpse between the buildings. He continues down the street, walking in the shadow of rows and rows of scaffoldings, and when he emerges into daylight again, he’s standing before St. Paul’s, watching its steepled dome stretch towards the darkening sky.

Severus has never been a religious man. Endless unanswered prayers whispered in the dark while his mother’s sobs echoed through the house have seen to that. But churches have always managed to bring a sort of peace into his heart. He’s kept many fond memories of this one, of Sunday morning mass, huddled safely between his grandparents, sleepily listening to the hymns and the hum of prayers, the pleasant sound of countless leaflet pages being turned, gazing up at the pillars and engravings.

He could head around and go inside, but the thought of finding himself among so many tourists chills him. He’s also afraid, somehow, that going back wouldn’t do his memories justice, that it would alter something precious he desperately wants to hold onto.

Severus keeps walking, almost absent-mindedly. Different sights bringing different memories to the surface, and he lets the emotions fill him up, embraces them.

By the time he walks into Soho, the sun has almost completely set, and queues are forming outside restaurants and pubs. Young, beautiful people laugh with their friends, and he tries not to stare at their happy faces. Pangs of longing shoot through his chest, and for all the time he’s spent seeking isolation in the last few months, he realises he wants nothing more in this moment than to be amongst them all. To be surrounded, to be smiled at, talked to. To be noticed.

He keeps walking until he reaches Old Compton Street. He doesn’t even really mean to, his feet just lead him there. Even after all these years, he still knows the way. He could probably get there with his eyes closed, purely by instinct.

How many times has he sneaked out after dark, while everyone was sound asleep, to end up exactly here?

He still remembers how scared he was the first few times, terrified that someone would recognise him, that people at school would find out, that everyone would know.  
He feared the very word then. Queer. Hearing it on the street or in school, even if it had never been directed at him, made his blood turn cold.

 _Fucking little poof!_  Tobias Snape would yell, drawing his fist back.

And Severus thought, if even this drunken sack of shit could see him for what he was, how could he possibly hide it from the rest of the world?

The street hasn’t changed much, but the people on it are younger, more beautiful, more openly affectionate than they were then, when he first wandered into it, curious and afraid.

It was here, aged seventeen, that he got his first kiss and his first blowjob, all on the same night. And he went home afterwards, ashamed but mostly exhilarated, and he didn’t sleep a wink. Partly because of the shame but mostly because of the exhilaration. He couldn't stop thinking of that warm mouth, of the short hair he had grasped tightly between his fingers when he should have been thinking instead of all the pretty girls his grandparents insisted he meet every other weekend at dinner parties.

When he’d finally gathered up the courage to tell them, almost a year later, that he had no interest in pretty girls, they simply sighed and looked annoyed. At least it wasn't a novelty in the family. They had both been prepared years ago, when his uncle Joachim had proudly announced his own homosexuality.

While Severus’ grandfather seemed generally unaffected by the revelation – 'live and let live' had always been his motto, uttered along with a slight shrug of his bony shoulders – his grandmother shook her head and complained that since it would be up to his cousin Oscar to further the family line, none of them should expect any real feats of genius from the future Prince offspring. However, if she first saw his homosexuality as a mere inconvenience, soon she was taking it in stride and introducing him to what she called 'respectable young gentlemen with proclivities like yours, or so I heard'.

But this is entirely the wrong place to be thinking about her.

All this remembering makes Severus feel even more miserable, even more lost.

Where has time gone? How did he end up here, all alone, unhappy, unable to reach out to anyone?

He’s forty years old but he feels like an old man.

Without meaning to, he’s already decided to enter a pub and drink himself miserable.

The whisky he orders is the cheap brand, the one his father used to drink before beating the shit out of his mother. It glints a pale amber in the dim lights, like diluted piss, and tastes like bile on his tongue.

There is much better alcohol, bottles and bottles of it line the shelves right in front of him, but somehow tonight, this one seems fitting.

Severus drains his glass and the barman pours him another one without a word.

There’s a sticky spot on the bar he can’t stop touching, where the varnish has rubbed off over years of sweaty hands and spilled pints. He pokes at it like an old wound.

Why did he have to go and think about his mother? His father he can always handle, the anger feels good, makes him feel alive, but his mother...

She was a different woman when his father wasn’t around, and Severus tries, as much as he can, to separate her from him. It seems only fair to imagine her this way. It feels like a kindness. When it was just the two of them, she would smile and laugh. She loved to sing, and she taught him how to dance once, humming softly as they waltzed across the kitchen, his small feet on top of hers.

He remembers being fascinated by her hands.

She had long fingers, graceful. She had been a pianist once, a lifetime ago, but there was no music in his father’s house. She would caress his scalp with those fingers, making him shiver. And she would always paint her nails, even when she was sad and bruised. Sometimes, when her hands were shaking too much, Severus would do it for her, his small, clumsy hands carefully applying thick coats of red varnish on her bitten nails. Even when he made a complete mess of it, she would smile and kiss his face.

He remembers her wedding band. A glint of gold, and how it kept slipping on her finger.

He keeps ordering whisky until his head is foggy and his mouth numb.

Sitting alone at the bar, on the other side of the room, a man shoots him a sultry look from under a fringe of dark hair and Severus feels sudden warmth spread through his body. He almost has to turn around and ensure the look really is directed at him, but he doesn’t have to. There is no mistaking it.

He pauses, a rabbit caught in headlights.

When’s the last time someone looked at him this way?

Just the effect it has on him, this simple glance, this flicker of interest, makes him realise just how much he’s been craving it. And when the man’s lips curl into a smirk and he jerks his head to the left, Severus doesn’t even hesitate. He doesn’t even stop to think that if it wasn’t for the whisky, he would never even consider such a thing.

With newfound courage, he stands and follows the stranger into the narrow hallway leading to the loo. The only thing registering in his clouded head is that for once, for the first time in weeks – months? – he doesn’t feel cold anymore.

As soon as darkness envelops them, the stranger’s mouth is on his neck, warm and soft, and a great shiver sweeps through Severus’ body.

Suddenly he’s alive again, fire rushing through his veins, and his hands, of their own volition, are sneaking under the man’s shirt and touching, touching warm flesh, grazing ribs.

How long since he’s touched someone else’s skin?

How long since he’s even wanted to?

“You’re so hot,” the mouth whispers against his ear before biting down on the lobe.

Severus gasps like a drowning man.

 _What’s your name?_ he wants to ask. Because he’s never really been able to separate lust and love before and kissing a stranger in the dark hallway of a pub is so unlike him that he can’t totally comprehend what is happening.

But he’s forgotten how to speak, and all he can manage is an unintelligible moan before the stranger’s mouth cuts him off, all teeth and tongue and warmth.

And it doesn’t even matter that the man tastes like cigarettes and beer and that he’s even drunker than Severus is. Nothing matters in this moment.

He would probably be ashamed of the sounds he’s making if he wasn’t so fucking hard.

“I like your beard,” the stranger says, grinning as he starts undoing Severus’ belt.

Severus can’t talk, can’t think. Doesn’t want to. He just leans back against the wall, legs weak, and lets the man reach down into his pants, breathing hard.

At that very moment, someone comes out of the loo, illuminating the dark hallway around them.

Severus’ eyes snap open, startled.

And a fraction of a second is all it takes for him to slip.

Light hits the stranger’s face a little too brightly, and from under dark eyelashes, the eyes that meet his suddenly belong to someone else. They become the very same eyes he’s seen nearly every day for fifteen years.

Amused and sparkling with laughter.

Angry and shooting daggers.

Wide and in awe.

Intense and hooded with pleasure.

Clouded over with pain.

“What the fuck?” the stranger hisses as Severus pushes him away roughly before vomiting on the floor.

Nothing much comes out, but it physically hurts, like his whole body is trying to turn itself inside out.

Severus leans heavily against the wall, gasping for breath and dry heaving, desperately trying to repress the sobs crawling up his throat.

“Fucking hell...” the man says, and he stumbles away, shaking his head.

Severus wipes at his mouth with his sleeve and slides down against the wall, wrapping his arms around his shivering body.

“You alright, mate?” the man who’s just come out of the loo asks carefully, keeping his distance.

“Colin,” Severus whispers, voice so low he can barely even hear it himself.

He hasn’t said the name in months. He’s tried so hard to will it out of existence.

It shouldn’t mean anything anymore, but it does.

It still means everything.

Severus waits there, in that hallway, until three men come for him – the barman, the man from the loo and another one.

They lead him away gently and put him in a cab.

 

* * *

 

He dreams about the waterhole again.

It’s a circular well, several feet wide, in the middle of a forest, judging by the tree branches overhead. The walls are old stone covered in a thick layer of moss and algae, and much too slippery and high to climb.

The hole is filled with water and flooded in sunlight, and Severus has forgotten how to swim.

His body is heavy, struggling to stay afloat, muscles aching with the effort, being pulled under the surface by fear and panic alone. He knows he’s going to drown, it’s only a matter of time.

The waiting is the worst part. He feels he should just give up and slip under, let the water take him.

Why delay the inevitable? He’s just so damn tired.

Something wraps itself around him then, someone. A body, warm and soft, warmer than the sunlight on his face. He feels arms around his torso, he feels legs intertwine with his. He feels someone there, but he can’t see a face. He sees only water and sunlight, green leaves overhead and the dark depths underneath. But the body is there against his, keeping him afloat. And he feels that this body loves him. And he loves it too, deeper, harder than he’s ever loved anything in his whole life.

He feels it like something expanding inside his chest, growing and growing until it’s crawling up his throat.

Severus wakes with a choking gasp, sitting up in bed, head pounding painfully.

The longing is nestled inside his chest like a claw wrapped around his heart and tightening its grip.

He barely makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

Then, despite his best efforts to avoid it, he starts sobbing like a child.

This often happened in the days after Colin. Severus would rush to the bathroom and throw up, then cry and throw up again.

After Colin wasn’t available anymore to shiver on the floor in pain, Severus had taken over. But not in the same way.

The alcohol, the dream, the longing, all this makes the situation much different, of course, but it’s been a while still, and the sudden realisation that things are repeating themselves, even in a different way, doesn’t help the feeling of defeat that sweeps over him, stronger than ever.

When the worst of it has passed, he leaves the bathroom, still nauseous, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. The living-room is filled with sunlight. He shuts the blinds and makes his way to the kitchen in the dark. There, Severus toasts one slice of bread and takes only a few bites with a large glass of water and two aspirins. Then he sits at the table for a long time, staring into space, taking deep breaths, urging the pounding headache and the pain in his chest to disappear.

Half an hour later, he’s curled up on the sofa and just about ready to fall back asleep when his phone starts ringing, the sound of it coming from somewhere nearby, though he has no idea where he’s left it.

He wants to ignore it and just drift off to sleep.

It’s probably Marine again. She must have enough of his silent treatment.

Hopefully she won’t decide to just keep calling all day, though he wouldn’t put it past her. He would save himself a lot of trouble if he just talked to her already.

Telling her right off to leave him alone might work... though he seriously doubts it.

And why isn’t the bloody thing still on vibrate anyway?

With a groan, Severus stumbles to his feet and wanders around, searching for the source of the noise. He finds it in the pocket of his overcoat, which he’s left crumpled by the front door.

Surprisingly, it’s not Marine’s name on the screen. This one he wasn’t expecting.

He clears his throat, and before he knows it, is answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” comes the reply, followed by a slight hesitation. “Severus?”

“Yes, Constance.”

There's a sigh of relief and he hears the smile forming on his cousin’s lips. “I didn’t know if you still had the same number.”

“You know me. Creature of habit,” he says, heading back to his spot on the sofa.

What is he doing? Why did he pick up? He was going to answer if it was Marine, just to tell her to leave him alone, but he doesn’t want to talk to Constance.

He should have told her she had the wrong number and be done with it, maybe she wouldn’t have recognised his voice. He should just tell her he’s busy, that he really can’t talk right now, or that he’ll call her back in a bit... He wouldn’t call her back.

He already knows where this is going. He needs to hang up now.

She laughs, and the sound of it makes his heart tighten.

“God, it’s good to hear your voice,” she says fondly. “How long has it been? Oh, don’t answer that! I don’t want to know.”

“It’s been years, I expect.”

Can she hear how reticent he is? Is it audible in his voice? And if so, should he try to hide it?

There’s a pause then, and he knows exactly what she’s about to say before she does, softly.

“How are you doing?”

God, he could have predicted the very intonation of her words.

He’s heard them so many times before, spoken in the exact same way.

“I’ve been better. But I’ve also been much worse,” he says shortly, letting her know he’s not exactly up to discussing this particular topic at length.

“Good... I just...”

He waits while she struggles with what to say next.

“I hear you’re back in London.”

“Yes, Oscar will have told you.”

Surely everyone knows by now. Well, it’s his own damn fault. If he didn’t want his family to know he was back, he shouldn’t have asked his cousin to help him find a place to stay.

“We’ve been talking about it, and we’d like you to come to dinner. This Sunday, if it works for you."

Constance pauses for just a second but doesn’t give him the time to say anything before she starts gushing out words uncontrollably, like she used to do as a teenager.

“It would be at the house, Oscar lives there now, with Anna and the kids, and Mother and Father... But there’ll be Uncle Joachim, and I’ll be there with George. And Gwen will come. Everyone really wants you to be there, Sev! Ella, Oscar’s youngest, she can’t wait to meet you. She’s read all your books–”

He cuts her off before this can go on.

“Constance, I’ve just now started to get settled in and... Truth be told, I’ve been feeling slightly under the weather–”

“I understand,” she says quickly. “I'd just like you to consider it. I know it must be hard for you... I can’t imagine... And I know you don’t want to talk about it. You’ve always been that way... But we all want you there, Sev. I mean... I want to be there for you, if you'll let me. We were close once, you and me. We were friends, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

He has this memory of her right then. They were sixteen years old and had just returned from school. A Smiths song was coming from the record player. He was lying on the floor of his bedroom, watching dust motes suspended in sunlight. She was sitting on his bed, chatting away, praising Morrissey, her one true love.

It’s been years, but he realises now how much he’s missed her, and how deeply.

They hadn’t just been friends. They’d been inseparable. Patterns in crime.

Being in Constance’s presence has always been so incredibly easy, so natural. To this day, she remains the most honest, the most open person he knows. There is not an ounce of malice to her character, she is only pure emotion.

If Constance were a body of water, she would be one of those beaches in the Maldives, where the water is so clear the sand through it is gleaming white.

“I’ve missed you,” he says before he can stop himself.

There’s silence on the other end.

“Me too,” she says after a while, her voice small and tight, and he thinks she might be crying.

“But I’m truly sorry... I don't think I’m up for–”

“Please, just think about it and call me back. Or don’t call if you don’t want to. There’ll be a place for you at dinner, whether you show up or not.”

“No, I'll… I’ll call to let you know. I promise.”

“Okay. Well... it was good to hear from you. Take care now, Sev.”

“You too.”

There is a slight pause, like she wants to say more, but then she hangs up.

He doesn’t go back to sleep. He couldn’t possibly now.

He can’t even remember the last time he spoke to Constance. They used to call each other at least twice a week when he first moved away. Then maybe once a month, then only on birthdays and special occasions. Then not at all.

How does it all fade into nothing? How can you lose interest in someone with whom you've shared so much for so long?

Severus feels a strong urge to see her right now, and he could if wanted to. She would greet him with open arms and they would never speak about this long absence. He only wishes they could meet and talk about nonsense like they did when they were younger. Now, it would only be questions and comforting advice and support, and he doesn’t feel up to dealing with all that. If he wanted that, he would have gone to see the damn therapist.

He takes a long, hot bath and gets dressed, but he doesn’t shave. The man in the mirror still doesn’t look very much like him, and he wonders if Constance would even recognise him if he saw her on the street.

 _I like your beard_ , the stranger said last night.

The thought makes Severus shiver, not entirely in a bad way. He tries to forget about it all, to lock it away in a dark corner of his mind. But he can’t quite manage it.

Maybe there’s just too much locked in there already.

He needs to get out of the flat. Desperately. Anything rather than stay trapped here with his own thoughts.

This time, before he leaves, he grabs a book at random from the shelves, a thick tome that he barely manages to fit into his bag. He’s starting to come to terms with the fact that he will probably never write again. Possibly.

If there’s one part of London that hasn’t changed much in all these years – that never really changes, to be honest – it’s Westminster. Maybe Severus is just imagining things, but it seems to him even the air smells the same as it did back then, when he used to walk these streets every day on his way to school and back.

Big Ben chimes three o’clock as he crosses the street after a sightseeing tour bus and heads towards Westminster Abbey.

That’s where he spots the first Hoggarts students, two boys and one girl, standing on a street corner, arguing about a group essay. He recognises their uniforms on sight, the crest on their black blazers, with the blue-and-bronze tie of Raven House.

The girl has crossed her arms and is shaking her head vehemently at one of the boys.

“You cock!” she exclaims a little too loudly, earning startled looks from the passers-by. “I’m not failing because of you!”

Severus shakes his head and keeps walking, lips curled into a smile. Even from here he can see Hoggarts School’s main hall, its bell tower rising among trees and steeples.

 _Hogwarts_ , the students used to call it, and probably still do to this day, because of the stone gargoyles, hideous winged hogs, near the main inner staircase.

As he approaches, Severus knows which exact window belongs to the headmaster’s office, which ones look into the dining hall, and even the very one out of which he used to gaze in boredom during old Professor Binns’ History lessons.

As he nears the front gates and peeks through the wrought-iron fence and into the yard, he recognises the statue near one of the side entrances which, one dreadful afternoon when he was fifteen, was accidentally beheaded by a cricket bat and earned the whole class detention because, in a surprising feat of solidarity, they all refused to name the culprit.

Most of those kids would have drifted off to Oxford or Cambridge afterwards. Because Hoggarts is an elite school. Its students are unbearable, snobbish little shits, but brilliant ones. Severus will give them that.

It feels good to remember these things. Strangely, the incessant feeling of longing that he can’t seem to rid himself of has morphed into something different, and Severus finds himself yearning for those long-lost afternoons where all he had to worry about were essays and marks and which cute boys in his year might be gay, too.

How easy life seemed before. Before he decided to pursue his dreams and go to Paris. Before he met Colin.

The thought of Colin comes and for once he lets it.

Colin had been in London once in his whole life and hated it deeply, complained about it often, probably just to annoy Severus. In fact, this played an important role in his decision to return home.

Paris is full of Colin, but Severus has never visited London with him.

There are no memories here. _Tabula rasa_.

Lessons are just letting out for the day, and the narrow street is swarming with students. Severus desperately wants to slip in through the front doors and wander the familiar halls, but it wouldn’t take long for him to be noticed, and he isn't sure such a thing really is allowed. The last thing he needs is to be caught lurking about where he has no business being. Instead, he follows the flow of chattering kids along, listening in to their conversations, which centre mainly on teachers, schoolwork, and which boys or girls they want to snog.

Distractedly, he follows a group of older teenagers into a side street and heads after them into a cozy little pub.

_The Three Broomsticks._

God, he’d forgotten about this place!

The house used to be home to a particularly gifted broom-maker in the 16th century, hence the name of the pub – at least according to the bronze plaque outside the door. Inside, in a glass case over the grand fireplace, are displayed ‘the last three broomsticks made in the shop’ before the broom-maker was apparently ‘murdered in horrendous jealousy by a fellow artisan.’ Its convenient location, along with its doubtful and frankly aloof origin story, make _The Three Broomsticks_ a prime spot for Hoggarts students, and thus its alcohol-free menu is as extensive as the offered selection of ales and liquor.

The pub is positively bustling at this hour, but Severus miraculously finds a seat at a small table near the back of the room. He orders a cup of tea and waits patiently, gazing around in fascination.

How this place has managed to escape his mind is baffling.

He should be panicking, surrounded by so much noise and chaos, but the context, the familiarity of it somehow puts him at ease. The kids he followed inside are crowded near the bar, animatedly talking all over each other. One of them is waving a book around – even from a distance Severus recognises the cover of it as Plato’s _Symposium_ – and making a mighty speech while his friends occasionally interrupt or snort with laughter.

When his tea arrives, Severus drinks it black and sighs in delight. The sunlight hitting the front window reflects in the mirror behind the bar and drenches the pub in golden light. He shuts his eyes briefly, temples still throbbing, but enjoying the moment nonetheless.

“Severus Prince?”

The man standing before him he immediately recognises as a teacher. It’s in the way he carries himself, in the way the crowd of students seems to part respectfully around him, in the worn but elegantly-cut tweed jacket he wears, in the old leather satchel hanging from his shoulder, and of course in the first volume of _The Longman Anthology of British Literature_ tucked under his left arm.

Severus recognises the man as a teacher even before he recognises who he is.

“Lupin,” he acknowledges, only mildly surprised.

Remus Lupin’s smile creates deep parentheses around his mouth. He hasn’t changed much in all these years, except there are hints of grey in his brown hair, more pronounced around the temples. His face is still young, but the way he squints in the sunlit room only accentuates the wrinkles around his eyes as he looks at Severus in astonishment.

“You’re just about the last person I would have expected to see today. What brings you here?”

Severus almost cringes. It seems Lupin wants to engage in conversation. But of course, he does. You don’t just happen on an old schoolmate you haven't seen in what, twenty years, and just vaguely nod in their direction.

Well, that’s what Severus would do, but Lupin has manners, so it’s only natural for him to want to talk.

“I was feeling nostalgic, I suppose,” he answers.

Then, seeing how Lupin is just standing there, smiling amicably at him, Severus gestures to the empty chair across from him in what he hopes is a friendly way.

“Would you like to sit?” he asks with a tentative smile.

It probably ends up more like a slight and barely-perceptible twitch of his upper lip. He knows this, he’s seen it in the mirror enough times.

Lupin glances at his watch briefly before taking the offered chair.

“Yes, thank you. I believe I can spare a few minutes. I’ve a school club meeting soon... Oh, I teach at Hoggarts now,” he adds with a chuckle. “English and Literature.”

Naturally. What is it they say? Those who can’t, teach.

But Severus doesn’t say this. Now is not the time for sarcasm. He’s had so few interactions with other human beings in the past few weeks, it would be a shame to ruin this one.

And besides, he really isn’t one to talk. If this saying were true, then he himself should be looking for a teaching job.

“Good for you, Lupin,” he says instead. “You’ve always been the studious type, I remember.”

Lupin laughs. “What a polite way to say that I am, and have always been, an insufferable bookworm.”

“I believe it takes one to know one,” Severus admits with a smirk.

“How about you then?” Lupin asks kindly. “Should we expect another book soon? It’s been a few years now since _Silhouettes_ , hasn’t it?”

It hasn’t been a few years, it’s been eight years. Precisely.

If Lupin teaches literature, of course there's a good chance he’s at least aware of Severus’ career. His genuine interest, however, is quite flattering. And Severus hasn’t talked about his work with anyone for a long time. Except there’s really nothing to tell.

“I did publish a few works since, in Paris,” Severus informs him.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Lupin replies in something akin to admiration, “but I’m afraid French has never been one of my strengths, and poetry tends to lose its essence in translations. It’s a shame, really. I quite liked your early works.”

Severus’ ego immediately takes over and he can’t stop himself gushing out, “Actually, I am working on something. It... It’s coming along well...”

Oh God, that sounded completely clumsy even to his own ears. Perhaps his ability to lie to others is rusty now that he’s solely used to lying to himself – and is even good at it.

And, Lupin suddenly has The Look, the one they all get. He knows. Somehow, he knows, and he can see. Lupin is not an idiot, he can see clearly what’s going on. He knows Severus isn’t really working on anything, he knows Severus has become a complete failure. And most of all, he knows why.

He knows about Colin.

Maybe Severus has better control than he thought and manages to stop the sudden feeling of impending horror from showing on his face, or maybe Lupin has seen the expression and caught on, because the fleeting look of sympathy is gone from his eyes as fast as it appeared.

“Well, I’m looking forward to it, Severus. I really did enjoy Silhouettes. I was quite surprised when it didn’t win the T.S. Eliot.”

 _You and me both_ , Severus thinks bitterly.

 _Silhouettes_ is a collection of twenty-five poems, all varying in lengths, which he has centred around the theme of strangers and the notion that each person, no matter how unimportant they can seem to our eyes, leads their own complex existence, and that though we are at the centre of our own universe, we are for others nothing but silhouettes passing through their lives. Severus wrote most of it on the terrace of the cafe across the street from his apartment building in Paris, and had it published in London in the spring of 2005.

It wasn’t his first book, actually his fifth work of poetry in English, but it happened to catch the eye of a particularly difficult literary critic who praised it in a few columns, and that was it. Copies practically flew off the shelves. Only a few months later, it was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize for poetry, and in January of the following year, Severus travelled to London to attend the award ceremony.

Thinking about it still makes him cringe. He was so confident, so sure to win. Maybe because even if he’d gained certain recognition through the years, none of his writings had ever generated so much hype before. The Guardian had called it ‘full of evanescent beauty.’ Maybe it went to his head a bit.

Yes, he had been so sure to win. Until he read Duffy’s book in his hotel room.

He can clearly recall the exact moment he realised he wasn’t going to win. He wasn’t even halfway through the bloody thing, his heart fluttering in his chest as he read. Something about being trapped in time waiting for death and love coming like a flight of birds. Then he sat up and swore out loud.

Maybe he would have won if he’d been nominated the next year, but he didn’t stand a chance against _Rapture_.

He isn’t upset about losing. God knows she deserved the prize more than he did. But it destroyed something in him, that book, shifted something inside, raised the bar so much higher. He had never read anything so beautiful before, anything that touched him so thoroughly, and that it had been written by someone else enraged him.

As pathetic as it may seem, he hasn’t written anything in English since then. He hasn’t read the book again either. He’s never even finished it. Just tossed it in the bin.

“Yes... Maybe next time,” he tells Lupin lightly, trying to look unaffected by the whole thing. Which he isn’t, of course. Even if eight years have passed. Because ruminating everything that has ever gone wrong in his life is what Severus is good at.

Lupin smiles again – damn that man and his smiles – and glances at his watch.

“I'm afraid I have to go now," he says before standing. "I really shouldn’t keep the kids waiting. I’m always berating them about tardiness and they’ll never let me hear the end of it if I get there late. We’re discussing _Beowulf_ this week.”

“Yes, of course,” Severus replies, feeling relief flood through him.

He watches as Lupin searches his inside pocket and takes out a small card and a pen.

“I wonder if I could invite you over for a cup of tea tomorrow night, so we might catch up some more? My wife is working late nights and I would not mind the company. Say, around seven?”

Severus watches, powerless, as Lupin writes down his address on the back of the business card and hands it to him with another kind smile.

“Check your schedule and let me know if you can’t make it. My mobile number is on there, and my email. I hope you come. It’s not everyday one can converse with a real poet.”

“Yes, well... Thank you, I will... let you know.”

_Oh, for fuck's sake, Severus Prince! Get a grip!_

“See you around, Severus,” Lupin says brightly before walking back through the crowd towards the door.

Severus watches as a few students call out and wave to Lupin, who responds with smiles and kind words, and then the man is gone.

What the devil just happened?

What is it with people inviting him over? First Constance and now Remus Lupin, a man he hasn’t seen in twenty years!

Does he look so desperately lonely? He didn’t think it showed…

Lonely or not, there is no way in hell that he will go to Lupin’s for tea tomorrow. In what twisted world would he be stupid enough to spend a whole evening being smiled at and talked to like a wounded child? Watching people walk on eggshells around him has never brought him anything other than extreme annoyance, so why on earth would he want to subject himself to a whole evening of it?

Lupin can very well shove his invitation up his own arse!

 

* * *

 

It’s pouring rain the next day.

Severus attempts to take a nap three times, starts reading and gives up on four different books, and listens to half the records he owns. By three o’clock, he finally has to admit that he’s bored out of his mind.

It's quite astonishing. It’s as if the last two days have somehow managed to pull him from his relentless cycle of cowardice and laziness, and he is now finally fully awake, and more importantly, seeking distractions. Sleep, which usually comes easily, now seems to elude him.

At four in the morning, in a fit of insomnia, he even turned on the computer in an attempt to write. Granted, he didn’t manage to get a single word down, but the intention alone means something. He did go through the trouble to turn on the bloody thing. That’s more effort than he’s done in a long while, even if he ended up browsing Amazon instead.

Around six o’clock he realises he’s starving. But of course, he has no food at home aside from an old loaf of bread that’s just about to go stale.

It’s while rummaging around the kitchen for a takeaway menu that he sees Lupin’s card. It’s lying on top of a pile of rubbish in the bin.

Before he knows it, Severus is picking it up and turning it over to glance at the handwritten address. Without forming it in a complete thought, he’s already decided to go.

At first, he can only stand there, shaking his head at how very desperate he must be. Only yesterday he was absolutely opposed to the idea of accepting Lupin’s invitation, almost disgusted by it, and now, without a second thought, he’s actually decided to go.

Has he no self-respect left at all?

But there’s something else happening. There’s this strange sensation again, this feeling telling him that he really must go. Marine jokingly calls it his ‘feminine intuition.’ He just knows that accepting Lupin’s invitation is the right thing to do. It’s a tingle on the top of his head, like a shiver, but not totally unpleasant.

Secretly he likes to imagine that it’s his mother’s ghost steering him in the right direction, running her fingers through his hair like she used to. But he would never, in a thousand years, tell anyone this.

And let’s be honest, it really isn’t much of a choice. Either spend a few hours with Lupin or die of boredom. And it can’t be that bad. They will probably end up talking about literature. Severus will agree to talk about his work if it comes up, but carefully avoid mentioning any future projects. And if worse comes to worst and Lupin has the nerve to bring up Colin, Severus has already rehearsed a very polite little speech to put him in his place quite nicely.

He showers and gets dressed. He still doesn’t shave, but after looking at the stranger’s reflection for a while, decides that he’s badly in need of a haircut.

It’s still pouring outside, and he can’t find an umbrella anywhere, so he decides to get a cab.

Through the Friday night traffic, it ends up taking much longer by car than if he had simply taken the tube, and he arrives a bit late, but at least he’s warm and dry.

Lupin lives on the corner of a row of identical terraced brick houses. Nothing much differentiates his from the others, apart from a withered potted geranium on the front step.

Severus leaves a good tip for the driver – he always does so when cabbies don’t feel the need for small-talk – and hurries to the door, eager to get out of the rain.

There is warm light coming from the window to his right, which he assumes to be the living-room’s, but the blinds are shut. The knocker shines golden under the street-lamps. Severus rings the doorbell instead and hears its echo through the bowels of the house.

It takes only a few seconds for Lupin to open the door. He is dressed exactly like Severus imagines a man like Lupin would dress outside of class. In a pair of brown corduroys and a thick, hand-knitted jumper.

“Ah, Severus,” he greets with a smile. “Good evening. Come in, please.”

Lupin opens the door wider and Severus hurriedly shakes the rain from his overcoat before stepping inside.

“Good evening,” he replies, unable to remember the last time he visited someone. “Sorry I’m late. Thank you again for inviting me.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. I didn’t know if you were really going to show up, but I’m glad you did. I imagine you must be very busy.”

 _Busy?_ Severus almost snorts.

Lupin takes his coat and hangs it next to another one on a hook by the door.

While removing his shoes, Severus notices a pair of men’s boots on the floor that are definitely not Lupin’s – they look like they might belong to a young man, and he’ll be damned if the man ever wears anything but oxfords.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I have another guest,” Lupin announces suddenly. “Harry likes to show up unannounced,” he finishes with an affectionate smile.

“No problem. This is your home,” Severus replies shortly, trying to ignore the knot forming in his stomach.

It may seem foolish, but the thought hadn’t crossed his mind that he might meet someone new tonight and it makes him suddenly nervous. As he follows Lupin down the hallway towards the living-room, he takes deep breaths.

What on earth possessed him to come here tonight when he could be safe at home, by himself? Oh right, he was bored. And the top of his head tingled.

What fucking rubbish.

The hallway is warm and has a pleasant smell, like sandalwood with a hint of vanilla. Lupin’s house is elegantly furnished, but not overly richly so like most houses in these areas tend to be. There is no priced antique furniture so fragile it can barely stand to be looked at, let alone sat on. Items are stylishly mismatched, and there's a feminine touch, evident in the pillows, the afghan throws, and the scented candles carefully displayed. But there is also a hint of messiness undoubtedly belonging to the resident professor – books lying around, a pile of essays on an end table. There's also a child in the house – Severus spots toys and a safety barrier in the stairwell. A large fluffy cat stares at him lazily from where it’s curled up on the arm of the sofa. A fire is blazing on the hearth.

But all this Severus barely notices before his gaze settles on the figure in the corner of the living-room.

There is a young man sitting cross-legged in a large armchair. In his hands, he cradles a steaming mug of tea, and is in the process of blowing on it softly when they enter.

When he looks up, Severus feels like he’s just been punched in the guts.

The boy has a beautiful, pale face and dark hair, but it’s his eyes that stand out. Clear emerald green. A truly stunning shade. Even from a distance, they manage to render Severus speechless.

“Harry, this is Severus Prince, an old schoolmate of mine,” Lupin announces.

The boy, Harry, first looks surprised then seems to remember his manners, and his mouth, which is quite lovely, curls into a smile.

Unfolding his body from the chair, he stands to shake Severus’ hand.

Severus half expects to feel some kind of electric current, but there is only warmth when their hands touch.

Suddenly, the strangest feeling comes over him. He barely manages to stop the confusion from showing on his face as the strongest impression of déjà vu he’s ever experienced washes over him. For a fraction of a second, he’s convinced beyond doubt that he’s stood in this exact spot before, in the middle of Lupin’s living-room, reaching out to shake hands with this boy.

Has Severus seen him before? Is that what it is?

No. No, he can’t possibly have seen him before. He would remember him.

Severus would never forget such a face.

“Hello,” he says, his tongue heavy and dry in his mouth.

Immediately he wants to smack himself.

_Hello??? What are you, an uneducated plebeian?_

“Nice to meet you,” the boy greets him before turning towards Lupin, looking uncomfortable. “You should’ve told me you were expecting someone. I could’ve come back another time–”

“Nonsense, Harry. You’re welcome here anytime,” Lupin tells the boy softly before turning to Severus. “Harry is a former student of mine. Harry, you may have heard about Severus. He is a published poet.”

“Right... Severus Prince,” Harry says, now looking at Severus in something like amazement. “I thought your name sounded familiar.” He cringes then, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry though, I haven’t read any of your stuff. Poetry’s not really my thing. No offence.”

“None taken,” Severus manages, trying to sound casual and not like he’s getting closer and closer to cardiac arrest every time the boy’s eyes meet his.

In any other situation, if anyone else had dared tell him that poetry’s not really their thing, he would have replied with a scalding remark. But for once, Severus miraculously manages to shut his mouth on the matter.

“Please, Severus, take a seat. Let me fetch you some tea,” Lupin says pleasantly before stepping into the kitchen.

Wary of the large cat squinting at him from the sofa – felines never seem to like him – Severus takes a seat in the other armchair, the one closest to the fireplace, his insides shivering nervously. Harry, who's curled back into his own armchair, smiles at him politely before taking a sip of his tea.

While his attention is focused on the drink, Severus takes the opportunity to get a thorough look at him.

His hair is inky black, without the slightest hint of brown to it, which is quite rare for someone of his complexion. His face, his neck, and what Severus can see of his hands is creamy pale. It’s this contrast, perhaps, that makes the sight of him so striking at first glance, that makes his face seem illuminated.

Under a forehead partially obscured by tousled curls, his eyebrows are perfectly straight lines. Being stuck in a perpetual frown himself, Severus has always been envious of such faces. The boy has a small, narrow nose, perfectly defined cheekbones, and a pale, wide mouth. And under dark eyelashes are those eyes of his. Those eyes that can’t possibly be described in words.

He is dressed simply, in tight black jeans and a grey, fitted jumper. His socks have a Christmas pattern on them.

Writers, poets especially, are good, swift observers. Severus gets all this in a few seconds’ look, in the infinitesimal amount of time it takes Harry to take a small, tentative sip of his tea before looking up again. Severus casually looks away then, as if contemplating the room with curiosity.

No, no, he’s definitely never seen this boy before. There’s no doubt about it. And yet...

Oh, how he suddenly wishes they were sitting far apart in a room full of people, noisy and crowded, so he could go on staring at the boy as much as he wants without being noticed by him. It’s definitely something he could do for hours...

“So, you’ve attended Hoggarts?” Severus asks somewhat faintly.

“Until two years ago,” the boy tells him.

That would make him what? Nineteen? Twenty? Severus feels old, looking at him.

What did nineteen-year-olds look like back in the day? Surely not this. God, he’s something to behold.

“And what are you doing now?”

“Nothing much,” Harry replies with a shrug. “I work in a bookshop.”

“We were just discussing Harry’s occupation,” Lupin interjects from the adjacent room.

Harry huffs. “We weren’t discussing anything. Remus was berating me about my future.”

“I was only saying you should keep your options open,” Lupin says as he walks back into the room with a steaming kettle, an extra cup and a plate of tea cakes balanced on a tray. “Perhaps Severus could weigh in. If I recall correctly, he’s an Oxford man?”

“That’s right,” Severus says, nodding in thanks when Lupin hands him the cup. “I studied English and Literature in Oxford. Then I did my Masters at the Sorbonne, in Paris.”

“Did you always want to become a writer?” Harry asks him, genuinely interested.

“Deep down, yes, I suppose I did. Although it's not quite what my family had planned. They wanted me to become a chemist,” he admits, dropping a cube of sugar into his tea.

He doesn’t usually take sugar, but this small action allows him to avoid the boy’s unwavering gaze for a few seconds and to catch his breath.

There is something in the way Harry looks his interlocutor so straight in the eyes when he speaks that is unnerving. It’s something very rare for someone his age.

“So, you knew that’s what you wanted, and you went for it. You didn’t just blindly fall into people’s expectations and go into science,” Harry summarises, like he’s trying to make a point.

Severus is slightly confused. “I suppose...”

“Harry’s been thinking about going down a different path lately,” Lupin explains.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” Harry corrects him. “I just said I’d consider. Remus thinks I’m too good to work in a shop,” he adds for Severus.

“Harry is brilliant,” Lupin tells him. “He could get in anywhere, and he knows it. Sometimes I think he’s doing this just to spite me.”

“Not just. But it’s part of it,” Harry says with a brief smirk. “There’s just so much pressure on people my age to do something with our lives, to become a functioning member of society, to be assimilated and earn a living and become important. What if what I want now, right this moment, is just to work in a bookshop and spend my free time doing what I want to do instead of having to pore over textbooks all day long and stress about exams? There’s no harm in that, is there? What do you think, Mr. Prince?”

Severus throws a brief look at him as Harry dangerously balances the teacup on his knee while shifting in the armchair to a more comfortable position. The sleeve of his jumper rides up slightly as he moves, and Severus glimpses part of a tattoo on his left wrist, a series of runes.

He averts his eyes, adds some milk to his tea.

“Call me Severus, please,” he says. “And there is no harm in that, no. You are still young. If you need time, I think you should take it. Besides, in my experience, there are some things school cannot teach you.”

He’s embarrassingly satisfied to see Harry shoot Lupin a triumphant look.

“See, Moony? That’s what I’ve been saying. Severus understands. Why can’t you?”

“I only want what’s best for you,” Lupin says with a sigh.

“Well, no one knows what’s best for me better than I do,” Harry retorts with some exasperation.

Lupin makes a face like he begs to differ but says nothing.

 _Moony_ , Harry just called him. His old school nickname. Severus had forgotten this. Apparently, some nicknames stuck even after Hoggarts. He strongly hopes it’s only because Lupin is now teaching there that it has resurfaced and prays to whatever deity might exist that his own never does. _Snivellus_ , they called him, thinking they were clever little shits.

A strange silence settles on the three of them then, nothing breaking it other than the cat's loud purring. After almost a minute, Harry puts his cup down on the end table, gets up from the chair and stretches.

Severus does his best to avoid looking at this.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll step out for a bit,” the boy announces.

And after stroking the cat’s ears roughly, earning himself a muffled growl, Harry disappears into the hallway.

“Don’t toss your fag ends in my plant again,” Lupin calls out to him, shooting Severus an amused glance.

“Yeah, yeah,” comes the annoyed reply.

Not long after, they hear the front door open and shut softly.

Lupin takes a few more sips from his tea before putting the cup down.

“Harry is James’ son,” he tells Severus quietly. “You remember my friend James Potter?”

Severus remembers. It’s always there, in the back of his mind, but time has gone by, and most of the time it doesn’t bother him. But as soon as he returned to Hoggarts, of course everything resurfaced. He hadn’t let himself think on it too much, not until he saw Lupin again in _The Three Broomsticks_. And even then, he’d done his best to repress the memories. But he does remember.

In what world could he ever forget James Potter?

James Bloody Potter. He was in their year at Hoggarts. A spoiled, privileged kid who could smell all of his vulnerabilities like a hound hunting a prey and had tormented him for years.

From the look on Lupin’s face, he knows that Severus remembers everything – every insult, every threat, every humiliation. And he has this look of shame and embarrassment on his face. Let him be ashamed! For even if he’d never actively participated in said torment, Lupin had never done anything definite to stop it. He’d always been the voice of reason amongst his friends. He could have dissuaded them, but he never did.

Oddly enough, to this day Severus can’t help thinking that if Lupin hadn’t been friends with Potter and that miserable bastard Sirius Black, perhaps the two of them could have been friends back then. Somehow, this only makes the whole ordeal seem worse.

“I do,” he says simply, after a very long pause.

“James died when Harry was little, along with his wife. Maybe you remember her, too. Lily Evans?”

Lupin’s voice is still unbearably softened, and he’s picked up his teacup again, though he isn’t drinking from it. Obviously, this is still a painful subject for him, even after all this time.

“I remember her.”

A pretty redhead with gorgeous green eyes. Which, apparently, she’s passed onto her son.

Astoundingly, Severus remembers having fancied her for a year or two, before he discovered he wanted something else entirely. She’d always been kind to him – all smiles and asking him to exchange notes in class so they could compare each other’s work. She was smart as a whip, beautiful and elegant.

How a girl like her could have ended up with Potter eludes him.

“He changed, you know,” Lupin adds, looking straight at him. “James. In later years, he changed. His parents died when we were seventeen, only a few months apart. They weren’t young, but it was still a shock. That’s around the time he started dating Lily. They got married straight out of school. When she got pregnant, it wasn’t planned, not so soon, but they decided to keep him. They both needed him, I think. Lily’s family was shit, James’ was dead, and he had a good inheritance. They wanted something of their own. James did a lot of growing up, and I know he felt regret about how he acted when he was younger. I think... I think if he was still alive now and he saw you again, he would want to apologise for how he treated you–”

“Well, we’ll never really know now, will we?” Severus says before taking a long, burning sip of his tea.

He hasn’t said this sarcastically, not really. He just doesn’t feel like talking about all this and would very much love to just let it be water under the bridge and all that. But Lupin sighs heavily in response.

“I just wanted to tell you now, before you found out... in case Harry let it slip. I know nothing I say can undo what James did, but please don’t let this cloud your opinion of Harry. He’s a great kid, terribly intelligent and he has a good heart–”

“You can rest easy, Lupin. I promise I'll make no attempts to destroy the perfect image of James Potter, which I’m more than certain you’ve done your utmost best to polish over the years, by heartlessly revealing to the boy the extent of his father’s... ignominy.”

Severus has to suppress a victorious smirk when he realises he’s managed to rid himself of that damned kind smile Lupin permanently sports.

“Ignominy?” Lupin says with an unexpected sneer. “Don't pretend you didn’t antagonise him every change you got!”

The rage comes like a warm thing curling up inside his chest, and for a second Severus can’t speak.

“Oh, I antagonised him?” he says softly, almost trembling with rage. “It was all my fault then, was it? I asked for it? I asked to be constantly humiliated?”

“You knew how he was!” Lupin hisses furiously. “He was a hotheaded and insufferable show-off. If you'd just ignored him, he would have walked away. But no! You had to rile him up, every time...”

“Rile him up???”

Severus can’t believe this is happening. For a second, a fraction of a second, he wants to stand up and punch Lupin in the face. The impulse is so great that his legs tremble with the desire to lift him up. But he doesn’t move. He wants to curse Lupin and tell him his dead friend had it coming, that losing his precious parents and then getting himself killed was all he deserved.

He’s just about to insist, to press Lupin to continue and say what he was about to say. But at that very moment, they hear the front door opening and Severus falls silent.

It's raining harder than before. He can hear it hitting the windowpanes.

They remain silent. They both sit there, staring darkly at each other.

By the time Harry returns, his hair now shining with droplets of rain, they have both somewhat managed to regain their countenance, although Severus’ face feels warm and he’s certain it shows.

After barely a glimpse of their faces, Harry snorts with laughter.

“What’s gotten into you two? Has Remus been rambling on about _Beowulf_ again?” he asks Severus sympathetically as he curls back into the armchair, tucking his feet under his legs. “I know you think it’s revolutionary,” he tells Lupin, “but really it’s a complete bore.”

Severus clears his throat deeply before speaking.

“You much prefer Tolkien, don't you? I noticed your tattoo earlier. Elvish?”

The way Harry grins at him jolts through his heart like lightning.

“Yeah! Wow, you’re observant,” the boy says, pushing back his sleeve to show him the complete tattoo running the full length of his forearm.

The runes, Severus notes, are not black ink, but a dark blue.

“It’s part of a quote from _The Two Towers_ : It translates to ‘Even darkness must pass,’” Harry recites softly.

“Beautiful,” Severus says before he can stop himself, unsure exactly whether he is talking about the quote, the tattoo, or the boy.

“ _The Hobbit_ was the first big book I read,” Harry says with a fond smile. “I found it at the bus stop when I was eight and brought it home without my aunt knowing. I’d read it in secret at night in the–”

He stops, looking suddenly uneasy, as if he's said something he wasn't meant to. Then he glimpses at Lupin briefly before taking a cake from the table and dipping it into his tea.

“So, Severus,” Lupin says suddenly, not quite looking either of them in the eye. “How long have you been back in London?”

“Only a few weeks.”

Harry perks up, as if eager to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Oh, have you been away?”

“I’ve lived in Paris for eighteen years,” Severus says, blowing softly on his tea. He burned his tongue earlier and the tip of it feels annoyingly rough.

Harry shakes his head. “Right. You studied in Paris, you said that. I didn’t know you lived there so long. My friend Hermione would know. She’s a big fan of yours. She’ll flip out when she finds out I had tea with you,” he says with a laugh that almost manages to kill Severus on the spot.

“I met Severus in _The Three Broomsticks_ yesterday,” Lupin says. “It was quite a surprise. We hadn’t talked since Hoggarts.”

“Were you good friends in school?”

“Acquaintances,” Severus says shortly, before Lupin can speak.

Best cut this subject short as soon as possible, he thinks, lest the conversation deviates to the boy’s father. The last thing Harry needs is a repetition of the altercation he’s just missed.

“I bet you were a raven,” Harry says with a smirk.

Lupin snorts, but Severus ignores him. “Actually, I was a snake.”

Harry pouts adorably at this. “Well, Remus always says I’m a terrible judge of character. Guess this only proves him right.”

“Is Dumbledore still around?” Severus asks curiously.

“He retired three years ago. McGonagall is headmistress now,” Lupin says.

“Ah, the school is in good hands then, firmer hands... less... less frivolous.”

“I liked Dumbledore’s frivolous hands,” Harry says with a grin.

Lupin chuckles. “You might have, but the Board didn’t. More than one Governor was happy to see him go. He got considerably barmier the older he got,” he explains.

Harry scoffs into his teacup. “Rubbish. What’s their excuse for keeping Binns then?”

Severus can’t hide the shock on his face. “Cuthbert Binns is still teaching? For Christ’s sake, he must be older than...”

“Than Christ, by now, probably,” Harry says. “And he didn’t get barmier with age. Only more and more boring.”

“I’m certain boring is an understatement,” Severus adds.

“Be nice, you two,” Lupin scolds. “Professor Binns is a kind man who’s worked hard for many years–”

“Years is also an understatement,” Harry interrupts, grinning at Severus, whose heart trembles in delight.

“How about Filch? Still terrifying students?”

“Yup.”

Lupins groans. “He’s got himself that grotty cat now. Mrs. Norris, he calls her."

"Demonic-looking thing," Harry mutters.

"Somehow, he’s managed to get permission to let her roam the school," Lupin continues. "He seems to believe he trained her to catch students misbehaving.”

“And about once a month, someone covers her with glue and he has a fit,” Harry adds.

“One of the most recent traditions the Weasley twins left behind,” Lupin says in a somewhat bitter tone.

“My best friend’s brothers,” Harry tells Severus. “They once shaved her fur into curse words. Oh, don't look so patronising,” he tells Lupin. “It wasn’t me! And I know you did worse in your time, I’ve heard the stories.”

“It wasn’t me either!” Lupin says defensively. “It was your dad and Sirius...”

Lupin trails off, shooting Severus a worried look.

Severus represses a smirk.

Here Lupin was, worried that Harry would let it slip, would mention his father, and that they'd be forced to discuss this painful history they have, when, lo and behold, he's just let the cat out of the bag himself.

Harry stares at the two of them in turn, and he seems about to say something when Lupin cuts him off.

“So, Harry, what have you been reading lately?”

The boy doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at Lupin, then at Severus.

Lupin is fidgeting, and Severus is sure he must have a somewhat satisfied look on his face.

Harry knows what they're avoiding. It's blatantly obvious.

“Flaubert,” he says finally.

Lupin smiles, seemingly relieved that he's conceded to change the subject. "Are you done with Proust already?"

“Finished it last week. I’m on _Madame Bovary_ now.”

“You’ve read Proust?” Severus asks, surprised.

He’s never heard of anyone reading Proust without having to, be it for a class or some official reason, let alone a nineteen-year-old kid.

“Not the whole thing. Just the first two volumes. I’m taking a break now before number three.”

“He thinks _Beowulf_ is a bore and yet he likes Proust,” Lupin says disbelievingly with a shake of his head.

“It’s not for everyone, it’s true, but I enjoyed it as well,” Severus tells Harry, who beams at him in return.

The boy then starts talking about which parts of the story he liked best, making observations and parallels to other works Severus never would have thought anyone his age had even heard about, all the while carefully ignoring Lupin’s presence and attempts to join the conversation.

What can possibly be going on here?

Obviously, Harry's noticed the tension when he’d returned. He would be an idiot not to, and it’s obvious to Severus by now that he's not an idiot. And, of course, Lupin and he must have a much more complicated relationship than simply professor and former student, given how close the man was to Harry’s father.

But even then, what would make a gorgeous nineteen-year-old visit an old professor, unannounced, on a Friday night when he could be going out and getting rat-arsed with his friends?

Now that he knows about Harry’s parentage, Severus finds himself searching for James Potter in him. At first, he’s convinced that this will explain the feeling of déjà vu from earlier. But he can’t find a resemblance. Well, there are a few physical similarities, to be completely honest, but they are so thoroughly thwarted by the difference in mannerism as to be completely eclipsed.

James Potter was the epitome of rugged masculinity. He was loud and obnoxious and completely devoid of anything resembling gracefulness. Harry, however, has a sort of fluidity to his movements that his father never had. He possesses a natural elegance which, when Severus thinks about it, reminds him more of Lily Evans. Harry is all wit and bright smiles and quiet energy, and Severus finds his presence soothing. He feels surprisingly at ease around the boy, which is unusual for someone he’s only just met.

The clock on Lupin’s mantel strikes nine o’clock.

“I really should go,” Harry says apologetically. “I’ve got work early tomorrow.”

Severus feels his heart sink as he watches the boy stand up. Lupin stands too, much too quickly, in his opinion, and he looks... relieved. Tired of being ignored, is he?

Far from eager to be left alone with Lupin, Severus follows them into the hallway.

“I best be off, too,” he announces.

Astoundingly enough, Lupin looks, if only for a fraction of a second, devastated by the news.

What is wrong with the man? Was he truly expecting Severus to stick around so they could continue their earlier... discussion.

“You heading for the tube?” Harry asks. “We can walk together. It's stopped raining.”

Lupin looks positively grief-stricken, and then Severus understands.

It’s not Harry’s behaviour, nor Severus’ presence that’s troubling him. It’s Harry and Severus. It’s the two of them talking and laughing and getting along that he has a problem with.

“Yes, of course we can walk together,” Severus says, doing his best not to smirk.

Harry grins at him and his heart trembles in his ribcage.

Good God, he’s worse than a teenager!

Meanwhile, Lupin has turned an unappealing shade of red and seems to be searching desperately for a way to intervene without making his purpose or desperation show.

Severus quite enjoys watching this internal battle.

Harry is busy slipping his boots on, seemingly unaware of what’s happening.

“Remember what I said earlier... about Draco...” Lupin tells him, his voice soft, not so low as to prevent Severus from hearing, but enough so that he understands this is for Harry alone. “Don’t call him back. You don’t need to. You’ll be fine–”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine,” Harry replies a little brusquely, “I get it.”

While the two of them are quietly arguing, Severus stares uncomfortably at a painting near the staircase, a reproduction of Monet’s _Thames below Westminster_.

How obvious, how commonplace. How perfect for Lupin’s house. The same painting that used to hang in Severus’ bedroom and which he’d thrown away in disgust.

When he turns back, Harry is putting on his coat in a hurry.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” the boy tells him moodily, and then he's out the door without a last glance towards Lupin, who just stands there, awkwardly powerless.

“Teenagers, right?” Lupin mutters with a nervous chuckle.

“Well, Lupin,” Severus says, putting on his own coat, “this has been an... interesting evening.”

Is there a cordial way to tell the man he hopes they won’t see each other for another twenty years?

Why is he even trying to be cordial at this point?

“I can’t say it went anything like I thought it would,” Lupin says quietly.

Severus huffs softly, shaking his head. “And what did you expect? It was a nice gesture, Lupin, inviting me here tonight. Truly, it was. But there’s too much history between us. Try as we might, we’ll never be friends.”

“I know, I know,” Lupin acknowledges, nodding humbly. “It was naive of me to even consider... But it’s just... When I saw you yesterday, I thought... I wanted to...” he trails off uncomfortably. “Constance is worried about you...”

Severus chuckles dryly. Now this explains everything.

“Of course. Well, you’ll be glad to know that there’s no need to pretend to befriend me and report to my cousin anymore. I've spoken to her and we’re planning to meet very soon. That’s all settled. Now you can continue about your business and stay out of mine.”

“I’m sorry, Severus. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Oh, I’m not upset. I should have known you two would be keeping in touch. You were always close at Hoggarts. The great star-crossed lovers. The lion who fell in love with the snake.”

Yes, Constance and Lupin had danced around each other for years, to Severus’ greatest dismay. Constance admired Lupin’s kindness and bookish nature, and he’s certain Lupin must have found her elegance and intelligence attractive – not to mention that strangely fascinating, mildly gothic phase she went through at fifteen, which doubled her number of suitors. And yet they never became a couple, never even fooled around the slightest bit.

It may have been because, despite her affection for Lupin, the fact that he came from an unknown lower-middle class family and only attended Hoggarts as a fellow deterred Constance from actually pursuing him. Or maybe she’d only been waiting for him to make the first move, but Lupin, even though he’d always claimed to be open-minded and completely devoid of prejudice, resented her financial situation and good name. Or maybe he simply thought himself inadequate.

And he would have been right to.

If Remus Lupin were a body of water, Severus decides then, bitterly, he would be the Dead Sea. Nothing grows in there; it has no wildlife, nothing interesting swimming beneath the surface. You can’t even really drown in it, you just float around.

“We’re both married now,” Lupin says coldly. “To different people, thank you very much.”

“To be honest,” Severus sneers, “I half-expected to find you married to Black. There were bets, you know, in all four houses. On how long it would take you both to come to your senses.”

He knows he’s struck a nerve from the furious look on Lupin’s face. But his hand is already on the doorknob, and Harry is waiting for him.

“It was a pleasure, Lupin,” he says dryly before leaving.

The sound of the door closing behind him is an absolute delight. Oh, how he loves having the last word.

Outside, the rain has stopped, and everything seems to shine in the crisp evening air.

Harry is leaning on a parked car, typing on his phone. Severus approaches him, once again struck at how beautiful he is.

The boy lets out a snort of laughter and shows him the screen. On it is a series of text messages exchanged with someone named Hermione. Surely the friend he mentioned earlier.

 _You’ll never guess who_  
_I just met at Lupin’s_

_Who?_

_Severus Prince_

_Shut your face!!!_

“Shouldn’t have told her now,” Harry says with a grin before slipping the phone into his pocket, “she’ll be nagging me all night. Want one?” he asks, pulling out a pack of Marlboros.

Severus shakes his head and watches in silence as the boy lights one and inhales deeply.

“I lied, you know,” Harry mumbles around a mouthful of smoke, “about working early. I’ve got the day off tomorrow, but I just had to get out of there.”

He pauses for a second, letting out the smoke in a long stream.

“Remus means well but sometimes he’s a complete arse.”

“You tell me.”

They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other.

Harry has developed smoking to an art form that fascinates Severus. Everyone smokes in Paris, but he’s never taken up the habit himself. Watching Harry smoke, however, is strangely erotic. It feels like watching something that ought to be done in private. He wants to say something, anything, but he’s speechless.

He’s a bloody poet, and here he is, standing speechless in front of a nineteen-year-old boy.

After a minute or so, Harry starts down the street calmly. Severus follows him without a word. He has a feeling Lupin might be peeking at them through his living-room blinds.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of their footsteps on the wet pavement.

“So, I bet my dad was a prick to you too, huh?” Harry says suddenly as they round the corner onto the main road.

Severus’ steps falter, only for a second, while he struggles with what to say next. There is an unmistakable note of bitterness in Harry’s voice that strikes him deeply, and when he looks at the boy's profiled face, half-obscured in the darkened street, Severus finds him frowning in a way that makes him look much older.

“It’s alright,” Harry continues with a dry chuckle that comes out in a cloud of smoke. “I won’t get upset. I’ve heard it all. Hoggarts is a small school and stories stick around for ages. Besides, I’m not that thick, I know you and Remus weren’t the best of friends. It was bloody obvious the moment you walked in there.”

He jerks his head in the general direction of Lupin’s house and clears the ashes from his fag with a moody flick of his wrist.

“I'm sorry, you know...” he says between two long drags. “For what it’s worth...”

“There’s no need for you to apologise,” Severus tells him. “You had nothing to do with this.”

“I didn’t really know my parents,” Harry says softly, looking alternately into the distance, or down towards the pavement, anywhere but in Severus’ direction. “They died before I could remember them properly. And I didn’t really know anything at all about them until I got into Hoggarts. My relatives, the ones who raised me, they didn’t talk about them. And I’d imagined all sorts of things, wondering what they were like… All this time I’d been idolising my dad, and then I found out he was nothing but a bully... I was furious.”

“He really was not so terrible as that,” Severus tells him quietly, and after all this time, he can somewhat convince himself of it. All this seems so far away. “You know how children can be.”

Harry laughs dryly. “You sound just like Remus. He always says that, that it wasn't as bad as I think. But most of the time, he doesn't even want to talk about it, so how can I know for sure? He says there's no use discussing it, that the past is the past... My therapist says I shouldn’t see him so much… That his refusing to discuss these things is ‘detrimental to my recovery’...”

He falls abruptly silent. Once more, Severus doesn’t know what to say.

Harry is probably embarrassed to have mentioned he has a therapist, but it would be terribly hypocritical of Severus to judge him for that when he’s not even brave enough to actually talk to one himself.

“So...” Harry says after a while, “what made you want to move to Paris?”

“Well, I wanted to become a poet,” Severus explains, grateful for the change of subject. “And at the time I thought the only way to do so was to follow in the footsteps of the great.”

“The great?”

“Baudelaire, Verlaine, Rimbaud…”

“Rimbaud? Isn’t he the one who pissed on a table once?”

“Yes… When I was your age, I thought he was a god.”

Harry throws his head back and his laughter mixes in with the smoke.

Severus is convinced he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

“You must’ve been such a pretentious little shit,” the boy says with disbelief.

Severus can't help but smirk. “You have no idea.”

“I like Baudelaire, though. He’s the one who said you should always be drunk, that it’s the only way to appreciate life.”

“ _So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk_ ,” Severus recites flawlessly in French.

Harry laughs again. “Did you learn French in Paris?”

“I certainly polished it, but it’s a language that’s always appealed to me. Mostly I learned it when I was younger, through a lot of reading, and the lessons Hoggarts offered. Does it still have the language program?”

“Yeah, it does. I took Italian.”

“Why Italian?”

“Oh, there was a cute exchange student in my year and I wanted to talk dirty to him,” Harry says with a shrug.

Severus’ heart gives a joyous lurch.

_Him?_

“Turns out they don’t teach you that stuff in class,” the boy continues, oblivious to the reaction his offhanded words just caused. “But I got pretty good. I spent the summer in Rome when I was fourteen. That really helped. I try to keep practicing, though. I still have a pen pal. Rosa. We keep in touch with Facebook and all. Do you miss it? Paris, I mean.”

Severus doesn’t answer immediately, still troubled by that fleeting revelation. His mind keeps screaming at him to get over it, but still he keeps repeating the words in his head, over and over, until he’s not even sure he’s heard them right.

Should he comment on that? Or ask Harry to repeat what he just said?

No, definitely not! That would just give the wrong impression. He should just keep his mouth shut. Besides...

_Oh, bloody hell! Does it even matter if the boy shares your fancies? It’s not like you have a chance with him either way!_

Harry is looking at him expectantly. Yes, right, he’s asked Severus a question.

Does he miss Paris?

He’s not entirely sure himself. Yes, he’s been back in London for almost three weeks, but he feels he hasn’t seen enough of it to really know. He clears his throat deeply.

“I miss... the little things. Fresh bread in the morning from the bakery on the corner. I miss the smell of the air. And the terraces... London has a lot to learn from Paris.”

Harry grins. “The smell? Really? I’ve always heard that it stinks in Paris. Besides, if London had terraces, we’d just be drinking rainwater.”

“Good point,” Severus admits with a smile.

“Jack Kerouac wrote that Paris is a woman, but London is an old man puffing on a pipe in a pub.”

“That’s a beautiful metaphor.”

Severus has never actually gotten around to reading Kerouac, but he doesn’t say so. He hates admitting things like that.

They’ve reached Pimlico Station. Harry flicks his fag end carelessly onto the street and slips his hands in his pockets. Severus follows him inside and down the stairs, neither of them speaking.

There is so much Severus wants to ask him, but he keeps his mouth shut.

 _Do you have a boyfriend?_ seems hardly appropriate coming from a man old enough to be his father. A man who knew, and was tormented by, his father.

And even if Harry answered no? There is no way in hell he’d be interested in Severus, let alone attracted to him.

And yet... Yet Severus desperately wants to ask. But the thought of Harry laughing at him... like his father has done so many times before, though not for the same reasons, of course.

Surely Severus would die from the embarrassment.

They are headed separate ways. Severus is southbound to take the Northern Line home, and Harry says he’s off to meet up with some friends. Then he looks at Severus for a time, conflicted, as if he wants to say something more. Or ask something more.

 _Ask me,_ Severus thinks. _Please, please, ask me._

He has almost gathered up the courage to ask for the boy’s number himself when Harry finally speaks.

“It was really nice to meet you, Severus.”

“You as well,” Severus says softly, his mouth terribly dry.

 _Say something else, you bloody idiot!_ he berates himself. _Speak now. Now, now!_

Harry pauses again. “Good night then,” he says after a moment.

And Severus watches as he walks away then disappears down the stairs to the platform.

It feels like sand running through his fingers.

The top of his head tingles wildly. But he ignores it, like the coward he is.

He’s so lost in thought that he barely remembers making the journey back to his flat. He does it all on autopilot, letting his feet and his subconscious lead the way.

Somehow, he manages to switch lines and reach his station. It’s pouring again when he gets out, and he walks through it all, through the freezing sheets, and he soaks it all in. It doesn’t matter.

When he gets home, he sits in the dark at the kitchen table, dripping water, a puddle forming on his chair and on the floor.

“Harry,” he whispers into the silence. Just to test how the name sounds from his mouth, how it feels on his lips.

Harry. So simple. Barely two syllables. Half a whisper.

Severus is shivering. Whether from the rain or something else. He’s so cold it’s indescribable. Inside and out. Just pure, biting, raw coldness.

In this moment, if Severus were a body of water, he would be a vast, unnamed sea in the Arctic. The kind that’s so cold it makes your heart stop when you fall into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The song playing in the cafe is “Terrible Love.” Originally it’s by The National, a band I love deeply, but for this scene in particular I prefer Birdy’s version.
> 
> \- The book mentioned and that Severus read in his hotel room is Carol Ann Duffy’s _Rapture_ , which won the T.S. Eliot Prize in 2005.
> 
> \- The poem Severus recites is “Be Drunk” by Charles Baudelaire.
> 
> \- What Harry says about London terraces and rainwater is a quote which, I think, is by Somerset Maugham, but I haven’t been able to find any trace of it.


	2. please please please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Is this how he’s going to spend the next few days, weeks, months? Wondering and hoping and debating whether he should call, whether he should ask. Whether he should try. Is the risk worth taking? Would it amount to anything? Why did he have to go to Lupin’s at all? He should have cowered and stayed home. He’s good at that. Why hadn’t he done that? Wouldn’t it be better not to know? Wouldn’t he be better off not knowing that someone like Harry exists at all?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue in italics in this chapter is spoken in French in the story. I originally wrote it in French and put the translations in brackets, but it made the text too heavy and annoying to read so I just put the translation and everything in italics to let you know the characters speak a different language.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND EDITED ON 25-12-2018.

* * *

 

-2-  
**please please please**

 

 _Everyone’s chest is a living room wall_  
_with awkwardly placed photographs_  
_hiding fist-shaped holes._

ANDREA GIBSON

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sleeping when his phone wakes him. It feels like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s just been tossing and turning all night, floating on the edge of sleep. But he remembers fragments of dreams, so he must have slept, if only for a few minutes at a time.

Just before waking, he remembers standing on a dark, deserted platform, waiting for something. For a train, maybe. Only there were no tracks for the train to get there. There was a river instead, wild and foaming, rushing by the platform. The sound of it was so loud it still echoes in his head upon waking.

And there were books, too. Hundreds of books. Being carried away by the current, down into the black tunnel.

His phone is ringing, and Severus lets it. He pushes the covers away and shuts his eyes again until the ringing stops and silence settles on his bedroom.

He was so cold last night, so cold he felt almost feverish with it. He’d piled a heap of heavy blankets on his bed and slept in a jumper and trousers. But now he feels clammy and sick, like he’s spent the last eight hours in a furnace. His insides are numb an empty, like they’ve been overcooked.

It’s still raining outside. Dim, greyish light peeks through the window, turning the bedroom sickly white.

It seems appropriate somehow. Severus feels grey and dim, too. Devoid of colour. Almost transparent.

He shifts to strip off his clothes, body sticky with sweat, and curls up on the bed again.

Other than the soft pitter-patter of rain, the morning is unusually quiet, and he remembers that today is Saturday. Not that it makes the slightest difference to him, but he can use this as an excuse to spend the whole day in bed if he wants to. Nothing is stopping him.

A sudden feeling of defeat sweeps through him.

He thought he was starting to get better.

Well, maybe he is, in general. Just not today.

Today he feels like he’s lost something he didn’t know he had.

He wants to go back in time. He wants it so badly it physically hurts.

He wants to go back, grab Harry’s arm before the boy can leave, and ask him. Ask him something, anything. No matter how ridiculous it might sound, no matter the embarrassment he might feel saying it.

Ask him for his bloody number. Ask him if he wants to meet again.

Ask him if he has someone. And if not, ask if he wants someone. Because Severus would be that someone. In a fucking heartbeat.

In French, the expression for ‘love at first sight’ is _coup de foudre_. A lightning strike.

Until now, Severus foolishly thought that’s what he’d had for Colin.

It didn’t even come close.

It’s quite pathetic, really. He doesn’t even know this boy. And he was never one to be trouble or disarmed by a pretty face before. He has more sense than that. But it’s not even that. The thing is, Harry is not just a pretty face. There is a depth to him that reaches Severus, that touches him to the bone. An inexplicable appeal.

If he was so inclined as to use clichéd expressions, he would use words like ‘missing piece’ and ‘kindred spirits’ and ‘destiny.’ But that would be outrageous, even left unspoken.

Nonetheless, he’s never felt this way before, about anyone, about anything, his whole life. Feelings like this leave a trace, and he’s never felt this, not even when he was a teenager. And no, not even when he met Colin.

But the worse part is, it doesn’t even matter. None of this matters at all, not any of these feelings. Because he will never see Harry again. Because he’s missed the chance to.

Because he’s a bloody fucking coward.

Severus shuts his eyes tightly and curls up further on himself, refusing to think about it anymore but unable to let it go.

He thought about destiny earlier. He didn’t mean to, but the word came anyway.

Is that what it was last night? Is that what the bloody tingling was about?

Did he just happen upon his soulmate and let him slip away?

His phone starts ringing again on the bedside table.

Severus swears he’s going to break the bloody thing in half. Then he’s going to throw it out the window and watch it crash down onto the pavement. Then he’s going to go down into the street, find what’s left of it, and set it on fire.

He grabs it moodily. It’s Marine, of course.

She must be beyond worried now. She’s probably furious. He could pretend he’s prepared to suffer her wrath, that he’s immune to it after all this time, but he would only be fooling himself.

Oh, fuck it! Might as well just get it over with. Maybe she’ll leave him the hell alone afterwards.

He accepts the call.

There’s yelling at the other end, voices arguing. Marine, mainly, and presumably Fabrice in the near distance. They stop short after a few seconds. Severus hears a muffled litany of swear words, then there is silence.

“ _Hello?_ ” he says smoothly.

There’s no answer at first. As if Marine is shocked that he’s actually picked up the phone for once. Then, after a long pause, she finally speaks.

“ _Are you serious? I’ve been trying to reach you for a month! What’s your fucking problem? I thought you’d died!_ ”

She sounds so furious he almost guffaws, out of nervousness or tiredness maybe. But he doesn’t laugh, barely manages to repress it.

A month? It hasn’t been a month since they’ve spoken last. Surely it hasn’t. She’s just exaggerating to make a point.

He wants to correct her, but he doesn’t.

“ _I’m fine. You can stop worrying,_ ” he says instead.

She’s silent, clearly at a loss for words again, but he can tell she’s already calmed down.

That’s Marine. Impulsive and headstrong, with a terribly unpredictable temper. Not unlike her brother’s…

If she were a body of water, Marine would be a roaring, furious beach, with foaming waves that turn reddish brown because of all the sand being stirred up.

“ _You may be fine now, but you won’t be when I get my hands on you,_ ” she says sulkily.

Severus can’t help but smirk.

She pauses again, takes a deep, shaky breath, and continues, all seriousness. “ _Shit, Severus… I called half the hospitals in Paris. I thought you’d done something stupid. You’re so fucking selfish._ ”

“ _I needed time, Marine. I told you when we last spoke_.”

“ _Time, time… I didn’t know it meant you were going to drop off the face of the earth. And when were you going to tell me you were back in London? I had to find out from Sophie Cassel at the gallery! How could you do that to me? You know I hate that slag!_ ”

“ _What? I didn’t tell her anything. She must have heard it from Madame Mirbeau, you know how she–_ ”

Marine huffs, interrupting him moodily. “ _Never mind that, when are you coming back? You’re not really planning to stay there, are you? You just need some distance for a little while and then you’ll come back, right? This is just some ‘change of scenery’ thing, isn’t it?_ ”

He doesn’t answer at once, thinking things over deeply before saying anything.

He doesn’t want to lie to Marine, not after ignoring her for so long and making her worry so much. But he just doesn’t think she will particularly like his answer.

To be perfectly honest, when he made the decision to leave Paris, Severus was convinced he was leaving for good. He wanted a fresh start, yes, but he was impulsive in achieving this. He realises this now.

But what has he accomplished since his return? Has his life really changed for the better?

No, but then again, he hasn’t made much of an effort to change it.

That’s the thing. He’s only really been trying for three days. And only half tried, frankly.

Given the opportunity to, right this moment, maybe he would choose to go back to Paris. But he’s too tired and in no position to make such a decision. Not today.

Today he just wants to stay in bed.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” he says softly. “ _I can’t think about this now. For now, I’m here, and that’s it. And later, we’ll see._ ”

There’s a sharp intake of breath at the other end and he thinks Marine is about to go off on a rant again, but she doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

He knows this probably constitutes an immense effort on her part, thinking before she speaks. Fabrice has surely warned her beforehand, maybe is glaring at her at this very moment as she searches for something to say.

“ _I’m trying to understand you, Severus, but I can’t. Why are you doing this? You should be here with us, with the people who love you. Not by yourself, kilometres away, surrounded by strangers_.”

Maybe he’s just imagining it because he’s tired and on edge and just wants to be left alone, but she sounds condescending, accusing. Like he’s doing this to punish her personally. Like this is about her, somehow. Like he means to hurt her.

And she’s calling him selfish?

He almost hangs up on her, but he knows she would just keep calling again and again afterwards. So instead, he takes a deep breath, keeps it together, and starts searching for the right words to promptly end this call.

“ _I’m not by myself_ ,” he lies swiftly, trying his best not to sound too defensive. “ _I’ve been spending time with my family. And seeing old friends. I had a life, you know, before_.”

Before you. Before Colin.

But he can’t say that to her. Talking to Marine when she’s upset is like trying not to drown caught in the riptide.

The silence that follows this statement is so long that for an instant Severus thinks maybe she’s hung up on him, but the line hasn’t been cut off and he can still hear background noises.

Is she searching for what to say next, or simply struggling to keep her temper in check?

Maybe he shouldn’t have been so heartless…

No. He will not feel guilty about this.

“ _Good for you_ ,” she finally says, quietly.

He can’t tell if she’s upset or furious or hurt, and he doesn’t feel like asking her. He doesn’t give her the opportunity to go on either. He just wants this bloody call to end.

“ _Listen, I’m sorry for not answering your calls, and for not telling you I was leaving, but right now, I need to be away. Just give me time_.”

“ _Fine, I will, but you know you can always–_ ”

“ _I know. I’ll call you if I need to talk. I know I can count on you, and I’m grateful for that, truly. But that’s not what I need right now_.”

“ _I’m only trying to help you_.”

There’s a defensiveness in her voice, and she sounds almost on the verge of tears.

He softens his words, an incredible feat of self-control. “ _I know, Marine. But I have to go now. We’ll talk again soon_.”

“… _okay_ …”

Hanging up is like coming up for air. He throws his phone back on the table, a bit too roughly perhaps, but he’s past holding back his moodiness now.

Damn Marine and her selfish pride. She just can’t stand to be kept in the dark, to not know every single thought that goes through his head, to not be at the centre of it all.

Can’t she just be satisfied dealing with her own pain? Does she absolutely have to meddle in his as well?

Everyone has their own way to mourn. Why can’t she understand that?

Severus shuts his eyes tightly, trying to erase this conversation from his mind, trying to let go of the anger, of the guilt, of everything.

The rain has picked up. It hits the windows sharply.

If only the storm could grow. Become a hurricane and just blow everything to the ground. Burying him under it all.

Somehow, he falls back asleep, slipping away ever so slowly.

The dream that comes is one he’s had before, countless times, in variations.

He’s sitting in a café, the one in Paris where he used to go almost every day. There is a small cup of coffee in his hand, and Colin is sitting across the table.

He’s been dead for eight months, but he’s still alive in Severus’ head. They talk regularly, whether Severus wants it or not.

Not unlike most elements of his dreams, Colin is just a figure. Severus can’t quite see his face. His eyes just sort of glaze over the person in front of him, and yet he knows it’s Colin.

His dreams are most often like that. Indiscernible shapes, faces he can’t quite decipher, places that differ greatly from their real-life counterparts. And yet, he still manages to make sense of it all, to pick out familiarity in the chaos, to associate these vague shapes and forms with people and emotions. The dream café, for instance, looks much different from the real one. It’s considerably bigger, always empty, and the large front window overlooks the ocean.

It’s a recurring location in his dreams, and even if it has a completely different configuration, he always knows it for what it’s supposed to be.

The dream starts so suddenly it catches Colin mid-sentence. His words, like everything else, are somewhat abstract. Vague sounds and intonations, like the peaceful drone of conversation that fills the background of a movie scene.

It’s a perfectly normal day. They’re sitting in their usual spot, sipping good coffee, having a casual conversation, and yet Severus’ heart trembles in his chest, and as a result, the cup trembles in his hands.

And as soon as he realises he knows what’s going to happen next, and is waiting for it, dreading it, it happens.

Colin stops talking, and for once Severus sees his face clearly, vividly. It becomes the only concrete, life-like thing in the dream.

Everything is just as he remembers it. The pale blue eyes with flecks of grey around the pupils, the light freckles on his nose and cheeks. His face is unshaven, his stubble coming out in shades of russet that only ever showed through his dark hair in direct sunlight.

He looks at Severus for a long moment, mildly annoyed, then says, “ _You’re pathetic._ ”

“ _How so?_ ” Severus asks, and even though Colin’s presence is crystal clear, his own voice sounds muffled to his ears, as if travelling through a thick wall.

“ _A nineteen-year-old kid? Seriously?_ ” Colin taunts with disdain.

“ _He might be twenty… I don’t know for sure–_ ” Severus says in a weak attempt to defend himself.

“ _Are you that desperate to replace me? Now that I’m dead, you’ll just–_ ”

“ _I was trying to replace you way before you died_ ,” Severus interrupts him coldly as a wave of anger streaks through him.

He won’t be antagonised like this by a dead man in his own fucking dream.

Colin scoffs and his next words are full of contempt. “ _Yes, and you couldn’t even manage it. You’ve always been such a coward_.”

“ _And I regret it every day, not leaving you the first chance I had,_ ” Severus spits out, slamming his cup down on the table so hard that the only reason it doesn’t shatter is because none of this is really happening. “ _Fuck your cancer, I should have left you that day. I should have been selfish and packed my bags and walked out the door_.”

Colin narrows his eyes in a familiar sneer, the slightly victorious one he would get every time he managed to get a rise out of Severus.

“ _But you didn’t, did you? Because then everyone would have known what a horrible person you really are, and you’ve always been too concerned with what other people think of you. That’s what makes you a coward_.”

Outside, the sea is slapping against the window in large, rolling waves, making the glass shake. The whole café trembles as if from the aftershocks of an earthquake and Severus knows he’s about to wake up.

“ _I was never a horrible person until I met you_ ,” he says quietly.

The dream dissolves around him before Colin can reply and Severus finds himself back in bed, shivering, this time with anger. This anger that only Colin has ever been able to bring out in him, so much so that even Severus’ memory of him can manage it all the same.

He stumbles out of bed, almost violently, and then he stands there for some time, shaking and fuming. Finally, unable to do anything else, to think about doing anything else, he sits back down on the edge of the bed and stares at the pinprick on the wall, breathing deeply. Breathing and concentrating on the wall. Breathing deeply. Again, and again.

The anger numbs away as the dream slowly fades to vague images, until all he remembers distinctly is the rolling ocean and Colin’s words.

It’s not the first time he’s had a dream of this kind, a continuation of their noxious, never-ending competition to determine whose words could hurt the most, could cut the deepest. In real life, Severus mostly managed not to rise to the bait of Colin’s venomous insults, but in dreams, he finds Colin’s words are harder to forget. Probably because they are partly his own now, originating in his subconscious and projected on a plausible antagonist.

As seems to have become his routine of late, Severus takes a long, burning hot bath and sits there for a long while, staring into space.

The anger comes and goes like the tide gliding in and out, as he recalls Marine’s words, and then Colin’s.

Afterwards, he stares at the stranger in the mirror for the longest time, studying the face until it looks familiar and then even more alien. Without really meaning to, just because he needs to do something, anything to keep his hands busy, he starts shaving.

Little by little, the Severus he knows is revealed to him again. And even though he still isn’t particularly fond of his own face, he decides that this was a good idea. The precise, careful motions, the smell of the foam, the sound of the blade grazing his skin relaxes him deeply. So much so that he’s almost sleepy when he’s done.

But his plans to stay in bed all day have been thwarted by the phone call and the dream that followed. If he were to lie down again, he would only end up overthinking everything and risk working himself up to a panic attack. The pinnacle of a perfect day. He forages the cupboards for food and finds an old can of tomato soup that he warms up with some tea. Then he turns on the telly to a scientific program to keep his mind busy.

The presenter is talking about the endless recycling cycle of resources on earth. He says the Himalayas were once living creatures, that much of the rock that forms them started at the bottom of the oceans and was raised over millions of years to become mountains, that fossils were even found on top of Mount Everest. He then goes on to explain that similarly, every atom in our bodies was once part of something else, which was, at the beginning of time, stardust…

Lupin’s card is on the kitchen island.

Severus is sitting on the sofa, quite a distance away, with his back to it, but he feels it nagging him, calling him.

Of course, Lupin would have Harry’s number!

This hadn’t occurred to him, which easily shows that he’s been so stupidly engrossed he hadn’t thought to use his head.

He needs only call Lupin and ask. But what sort of excuse could he give?

_Harry gave it to me last night, but I lost it._

Would Lupin even be willing to give him Harry’s number in the first place? He wasn’t particularly delighted with how well the two of them were getting along last night. In fact, Severus has the feeling Lupin wouldn’t give him the time of day if he asked politely. And who could blame him, after the way they parted?

No, calling Lupin is out of the question.

And yet, Severus is tempted to swallow his pride and do it anyway.

He really should toss that bloody card before it’s too late. Rip it up first, so he wouldn’t be able to read it if ever he ended up fishing it out of the trash in desperation. Or why not burn it and be done with it?

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Is this how he’s going to spend the next few days, weeks, months? Wondering and hoping and debating whether he should call, whether he should ask. Whether he should try.

Is the risk worth taking? Would it amount to anything?

Why did he have to go to Lupin’s at all? He should have cowered and stayed home. He’s good at that. Why hadn’t he done that? Wouldn’t it be better not to know? Wouldn’t he be better off not knowing that someone like Harry exists at all?

The answer is easy. Of course not.

Maybe he would sleep better, but he certainly wouldn’t be better off.

The way Severus sees it, it’s like living in a country at war, but knowing that in some far-away places, there is peace.

Like struggling to get through a long winter while knowing that somewhere, in a distant country, it is always summer.

_Good God, Severus. You’re reached another level of trite sensibility. Get over yourself!_

Later that day, he calls Constance.

He debates it for hours first, of course. No decision is ever easy for him anymore. Frankly, it’s a miracle he manages to get Harry out of his head long enough to remember that he’s been invited to dinner tomorrow and that he’s promised to call and confirm his presence.

What is also a miracle is that he’s actually decided to accept this invitation.

His cousin is ecstatic. She gushes on and on like he knew she would and yells the good news over her shoulder at her husband George, who shouts something indistinct in response.

Severus makes her promise not to make a spectacle out of this dinner for his sake. She swears it’s going to be a perfectly casual affair, but he doesn’t quite believe her.

They’re just about to hang up when she says it.

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Remus called this morning to ask for your number.”

Severus’ heart gives a thud so resoundingly strong he’s certain Constance must have heard it through the phone.

The thought occurs to him then, the blinding hope, that while he was suffering in the aftershocks of his cowardice, Harry, wherever in London he is, might have been pondering the same thoughts, going through the same kind of longing.

What Severus felt upon meeting him was so strong, after all… could it possibly be reciprocated?

Hypothetically, what would Harry do in this situation?

He would call Lupin and ask him to find Severus’ number, of course.

“Really?” Severus asks casually, his throat so dry it’s painful. “What for?”

“Oh… well, I didn’t ask. He told me you two had tea last night. I figured he probably wants to keep in touch,” Constance says. “Anyways, I hope you don’t mind that I gave it to him. I know I should have asked you first, but–”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I’ll see you tomorrow, Constance.”

“Yes! See you tomorrow!”

He almost drops the phone in his haste to hang up. What if Harry calls while he’s talking to Constance!

He sets the phone down on the table and stares at it, heart hammering in his chest.

He shouldn’t leave it on the table! What if he’s across the flat or in the bathroom when it rings, and he doesn’t hear it? He’ll carry it around in his pocket instead.

Is the volume high enough? He turns it up.

Battery at 60%. Should he charge it anyway? 60% is enough.

No, he’ll charge it anyway.

The charger is in the bedroom. He’ll just stay in the bedroom while it’s charging.

No, he’ll just charge it in the living-room, on the end table. That way he’ll be sure to hear it. He doesn’t have to say nearby.

He’ll stay nearby anyway, just to make sure.

The day goes by in a similar fashion, with Severus wandering about the flat nervously, staring hopefully at the phone and sombrely at himself whenever he sees his desperate face reflected at him in the bathroom mirror.

Why won’t Harry just call?

It’s not like he’s at work. He said he had the day off, right? What is he waiting for then?

Could it be that he’s like Severus? Could he be staring nervously at his own phone, scared to call, scared to ask. Wondering if the risk is worth taking. Scared to be laughed at. To get hurt.

Around eight o’clock that night, the phone finally does ring.

Severus, who’s somehow managed to doze off on the sofa, startles awake, and the phone, which had been resting on his stomach, tumbles to the floor. He picks it up hurriedly.

It’s an unknown caller. With a London area code.

“Hello?” he tries to say smoothly, but his voice croaks out the word, half-asleep.

“Hello, Severus?” a voice replies.

That’s not Harry’s voice.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Remus. Remus Lupin. Constance gave me your number.”

Of course.

“What do you want, Lupin?” he mumbles, irritation obvious in his voice. But it’s okay. It could just be from having to speak with Lupin, not from the despair he feels at not speaking to Harry.

He can hear a child in the background, and someone making cooing noises. How sickening.

Lupin sighs. “Listen, I feel terrible about last night, about the way we left things. I just thought I should call you and… try to clear the air a little.”

Lupin’s voice sounds strange, his words coming out slow and far-fetched, like he’s plucking them out of a book he’s slowly leafing through. Severus is genuinely confused.

“Well, you tried to apologise last night, and I was a complete git about it. If anything, I should be the one trying to clear the air. Perhaps I should let you know that’s not my intention.”

Lupin huffs. There’s a short silence during which Severus hears the child’s amused high-pitch noises and a woman laughing. The noise fades away as Lupin obviously leaves the room.

“Fine, I’ll get right to the point then,” he says in a cold tone that stuns Severus for a second. “Did you spend the night with Harry?”

Severus freezes in the middle of pacing the living-room, stunned into silence.

“What?”

“I’ve been trying to reach him but he’s not picking up his phone. Be honest, is he with you right now?” Lupin asks again.

His voice is so cold Severus has the feeling if they were standing face to face right now, Lupin might physically threaten him.

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” Severus fumbles out, his insides shivering, not wanting to let Lupin know what he’s really thinking. If only… Oh God, if only Harry really were here. “Of course, he’s not with me! Where the fuck is this coming from?”

“Listen, Severus,” Lupin says a bit more reasonably now, “the thing about Harry is … he’s a sad kid. He may not look like it at first, but he’s been through a lot. He makes himself look reckless and nonchalant and people gravitate towards him, but when they realise just how broken he really is, they get scared and they want out and they break his heart. Every time. That, or they take advantage of him. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to pick up the pieces–”

“Where are you going with this? I already told you he’s not with me.”

Lupin takes a deep breath and then his voice grows cold again. “I know he noticed you. I knew the moment he laid eyes on you. And I know you don’t feel indifferent yourself. I saw the way you looked at him,” he accuses, his tone positively dangerous now. “But I also know you’re grieving. And you might be tempted to… seek out someone… for relief–”

Severus is so furious his words come out through teeth so gritted they’re painful to get out. “You know nothing, Lupin.”

“Let me be very clear on this, Severus,” Lupin continues, very slowly, voice trembling with equal fury. “If all you want is a meaningless shag, you look somewhere else. Because Harry will get attached, and his problems will become yours. And he may look all light-hearted and big-eyed and invulnerable, but there are dark things in him. Things you won’t like. And if you hurt him, I swear… You’re not one of those teenagers who doesn’t know any better. If you hurt him, I swear I’ll bloody castrate you.”

After a few seconds of listening to Lupin’s heavy breathing, Severus finally speaks, as coldly as humanly possible.

“Last night, Harry and I walked to the tube together. We talked a little, then went our separate ways. That’s the end of it. Nothing more happened, not that it’s any of your concern in the first place. If he’s not answering your calls today, I think it has more to do with you than with me.”

Lupin sighs, a trembling breath. He’s cooled down, and he might just be realising he’s blatantly overreacted.

“Yes, you’re… you’re probably right. I’m sorry if I assumed–”

“Don’t bother, Lupin. And don’t call me again.

He hangs up, hands shaking. Then he saves Lupin’s number in his contacts. Just so he can ignore him if he calls again.

That’s it. That’s the end of it. Truly the end of it.

Severus sits on the edge of the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees, and takes his head in his hands.

At least now he knows. He knows this is the end.

But still, Lupin’s words echo in his head, over and over.

_I know he noticed you. I knew the moment he laid eyes on you._

If this is true, then why didn’t Harry say anything? If he felt this too, why didn’t he do anything?

 _Well, why didn’t you?_ a little voice nags at him.

 

* * *

 

Severus heads to Belgravia early the next day. Constance said to come around seven, but it’s five thirty and he’s already standing across the street from the house on Chester Square.

It looks like an image taken straight from his memory. Something fixed in time, unchanging and immemorial. It has been standing here for hundreds of years before his birth and will remain standing long after his death. Long after he’s turned to dust, long after all traces of him are forgotten.

The thought makes him uneasy, but he finds consolation in the fact that fragments of his life will always be contained within the walls of this house.

His best years were spent here.

He turns and walks back the way he came. He will come back in a little while.

This is why he got here so early. To see it first, to look at it, to soften the blow. To ease into the return. He needs to dip his foot in the water before diving.

He enters a small bistro on the corner, sits at the bar and orders a glass of pinot noir. It helps the shivering subside.

He sits and thinks about the house, remembering each room, each hallway, the portraits, the artwork, the carpets. He knows it all by heart, could navigate it with his eyes closed, even after so long.

The house is not the problem, it’s the people in it. His family. They’ve become strangers.

How is he to behave towards them now?

It’s going to be easy with Constance, at least. It always is. He finds consolation in that. And he’s spoken to Oscar not very long ago. He’s the one who recommended the estate agency that found Severus’ flat, so the ice is broken there as well. But the rest of them? Gwen, whom he hasn’t seen or heard from in how many years? And his uncles? And the children. For shame, he doesn’t even know the children.

This is why he’s come early. He just needs time to wrap his head around everything.

 _There will be time, there will be time_ , T.S. Eliot wrote. _To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet…_

The woman behind the bar is saying something to him, and it takes him a few seconds to notice.

“Pardon?”

“Would you like another?” she asks, nodding towards his empty glass.

“Please.”

He drinks his second glass more slowly, letting the liquid caress his tongue. The bitterness of it shakes him up, fuels his insides. He feels bolder and braver already.

He returns to the house a bit later. He’s still quite early, but the wait is driving him mad and he’s decided to just get things over with quickly, before he changes his mind.

This time, he crosses the street, walks up to the door, goes to press the doorbell, then stops.

He stands there motionless, finger raised, touching but not applying pressure of any kind. His heart hammers in his chest, and before he knows it, the old familiar panic is taking over, threatening to ruin everything yet again.

What is he doing?

He shouldn’t have come here! He should be safe at home.

He has to turn back now!

But before he can move a muscle, the door starts opening. Slowly, silently. Only a crack at first, then wider. Finally, it opens enough to reveal a short teenage girl with thick, long hair tied into an intricate braid.

She stares at him quietly with dark, dark eyes.

“It’s you,” she whispers, awe-struck.

Severus doesn’t answer, just sort of nods awkwardly at her, irritated at being discovered in the process of fleeing, and trying not to look like he was about to turn back.

Realising that his finger is still raised, ready to ring the doorbell, he lets his arm fall to his side.

“You’re early,” the girl says quietly.

She’s pushed the door slightly closed and stuck her body halfway through the crack as though to hide the inside of the house from view.

“Should I come back later?”

“No, no. This is perfect,” she whispers in delight.

She grabs his hand and pulls him through the half-closed door. Next second, Severus is inside the house and she’s pushing the door quietly shut behind them.

She looks up at him, craning her neck – she’s so tiny, she can’t be more than five feet tall – and puts a finger to her lips. And before he knows it, she’s leading him towards the stairs.

Her hand feels so unbelievably small in his that he’s convinced he could crush it by accident, and Severus tries to keep his grip loose as he follows her up into the staircase.

He’s so bewildered by the turn of events that it takes him a moment to notice the surroundings and realise how much the house has changed. Gone are his grandmother’s flowery tapestries and gilded mirrors, her antique rugs and rococo furniture.

The whole house seems to have sobered up. Dark woods, shades of beige and grey, subtle silver accents, discreet wallpapers.

But he gets only a glimpse of it all before the girl pulls him onto the first landing.

So much for relying on the familiarity of this place to calm his nerves.

“The house is so different,” he remarks as she leads him onto the next flight of stairs.

“They remodelled it five years ago,” she explains before shushing him.

On and on they go until they reach the top floor. Severus tiptoes behind her uneasily, unsure why exactly he’s being sneaked into the house, but he decides to play along and see where things go.

The room they enter is at the very end of the hall, on the topmost floor of the house, right under the attic. This one doesn’t look quite as affected by the remodel. The walls have been painted a dark burgundy colour and the furniture, for the most part, has been changed, as have the bedding and drapes, and fairy lights are hanging on the back wall. But the rest of it is exactly as it was.

Severus looks around in astonishment while the girl shuts the door quietly behind them.

“This used to be my bedroom,” he says, though of course she knows that already.

“Yes. It’s mine now,” she announces, no longer whispering.

She sits heavily at the foot of the bed, staring at him for a long moment.

“I’m Ella, by the way,” she adds finally.

“I thought you might be.”

Oscar’s daughter. Fourteen years old. Attends Hoggarts.

And what is it Constance said?

_She’s read all your books…_

And indeed, here they are on a shelf.

God, it’s like he’s sixteen years old again, looking around this room. She’s even kept the posters on the walls: The Cure, The Smiths, New Order, Joy Division. There’s even some French bands as well: Indochine, Noir Désir.

Most of the books on the small shelf over the desk used to belong to him, too. Compared to the more recent tomes in the larger bookshelf, they look positively ancient, with their yellowed pages and cracked spines.

On the old desk that used to be his own still sits his very first typewriter. It’s massive and weighs a ton, which is why he didn’t bother taking it with him to Oxford when he left, or anywhere else he went afterwards.

And then he remembers, out of the foggiest memories, a call from Constance years ago.

_They’re remodelling the house on Chester Square. Do you want any of your stuff back or should we put it in storage?_

And his answer: _I don’t care. Do whatever you want with it._

“You’re so much taller than I thought you were,” Ella says after a while. “How tall are you?”

“Six three, or four, I don’t know,” he replies absent-mindedly, still staring around the room.”

“I hope you don’t mind me taking you up here,” she says with a sort of sudden realisation.

Severus considers her for a moment.

She has a serious disposition for a fourteen-year-old. If she weren’t so small, just judging from her face and the way she expresses herself, she could easily pass for seventeen.  
Maybe it’s just her eyes, dark and gleaming and ageless.

She’s wearing a tight black dress that stops just above her knees and she keeps tugging on it uncomfortably. She goes to cross her legs then doesn’t, laying them flat in front of her instead and pulling on the hem of her dress to cover her thighs.

Severus has the feeling that if it weren’t for her long-lost relative visiting, today would find her dishevelled, in a t-shirt and jeans, or joggers, and thick socks.

“I was looking out the window and I saw you on the street. And… well, I wanted you all to myself before they got to you.” She pauses, then adds, “And you seemed nervous, so I had a feeling maybe you would like that, too.”

“Yes.”

“I knew as soon as you arrived I wouldn’t have a chance to speak to you alone. No one here takes me seriously.”

“Oh.”

She laughs, light and heartfelt. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Well, I don’t really know what to–”

Suddenly, her face falls and she asks, disconcerted, “Do you find me intimidating? My mum says I can be sometimes.”

Severus frowns. “Not intimidating, no. Unexpected.”

He’s just spotted his old record player in the corner, and of course, right beside it, a stack of old vinyl records.

“Why did you keep all this?” he asks curiously.

She smiles, looking around her. “We used to visit all the time when I was little. I hated coming here. We weren’t allowed to touch anything in the house. Everything was pretty and priceless. And those visits were so boring. My brother and sister are so much older than me, we never really played together as kids. I always dreaded coming here.

“But one day, I wandered around and I found this room. It was exactly as you’d left it. They hadn’t touched one thing. And the adults never really came in here because of all the stairs. Aunt Constance found me once, and she told me about all the time you two had spent up here, and what you would talk about. She showed me how to use the record player. I would spend hours in here. Then we were moving in, and my mum decided to remodel. She pored over magazines, she wanted everything to fit together. And I already knew I wanted this room to be mine. I wouldn’t let them tell me otherwise. And I wouldn’t let them change it like the rest. It felt special, like it had a history. It felt lived in.”

“I’m glad it’s yours then,” Severus says. He jerks his head towards the record player. “Do you mind?”

Ella beams at him. “Please!”

“Which is your favourite?”

“Oh no,” she gasps, shaking her head. “Play your favourite!”

“Fine then.” He looks at her suspiciously. “It might be the same one though.”

She shrugs and watches in anticipation as he looks through the old record pile.

First, he picks up The Cure’s _Disintegration_ , convinced that “Plainsong” is right up her alley, and she makes a small noise of appreciation. But then he spots _Hatful of Hollow_ and sees how the disk is just slightly peeking out of the sleeve and he changes his mind.

Perhaps their favourite really is the same after all.

She chuckles as he picks up the record. She doesn’t say a word, but Severus knows he’s got it.

It’s the last piece on the album. He hasn’t listened to it for God knows how many years, and the first few notes almost make him tear up.

 _Good times for a change,_  
_See the luck I’ve had can make a good man turn bad,_  
_So please, please, please_  
_Let me, let me, let me_  
_Let me get what I want this time…_

He’s heard this song a thousand times, but how is it the lyrics suddenly conjure up an image of Harry’s face?

“ _Haven’t had a dream in a long time_ ,” Ella sings along softly.

She has a pleasant voice, a little deeper than normal for a teenage girl, and the way she sings the line is incredibly touching.

When Severus turns to her, she’s smiling in delight.

“Oh, I like you,” she says with relief. “I’m so happy that I like you. I didn’t know if I would. Can you imagine if I didn’t? How disappointing that would be.”

“Indeed,” Severus responds with an offended grunt that makes her laugh. “I think I like you, too,” he tells her.

“Aunt Constance said I had nothing to worry about, that you and I would get along splendidly.”

“You remind me of her a little,” he says, sitting on the bed next to her.

She reminds him of a young Constance, yes, in her earnest ways and openness.

If Ella were a body of water, however, she would be a quiet pond in the middle of the woods. A secret spot.

“I’ve been told that I look like your mum a lot. When she was my age,” Ella says quietly.

A knot forms in Severus’ throat. “Yes,” he admits.

“I’ve always thought that song is way too short,” Ella remarks as it comes to an end and the bedroom is quiet again. “I’m sorry I talked about your mum,” she adds softly after some time. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Severus thinks this over, then shakes his head. “It’s okay. Maybe I don’t talk about her enough.”

Ella stands, walking over to the record player to remove the disk and put it away. When she turns back to him, she seems hesitant.

“The reason I really wanted to talk to you alone is I’ve got something for you. I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything–”

“I know, but I really wanted to. And it’s not just me, really. Johanna helped. But it was my idea originally, and I had to bug her constantly,” Ella explains, walking over to the desk and rummaging through the front drawer. “She goes to the Royal Music Academy. Johanna, that is. My sister. She’s a singer. And I got her to take me there. Anyway, this is for you.”

She’s taken out something that she holds out to him. Severus takes it slowly.

It’s a black plastic CD case.

Ella is staring at him intently, her wide eyes fixed in an unreadable expression. A long strand of hair has come undone from her braid and it falls into her eyes, but she doesn’t push it away. She sits down next to him as he opens the case.

Inside is a disk, the standard silver, rewritable type. On it, written in black marker are two words:

_Prince, 1970_

“It’s your mother’s end of year recital. The audio recording,” Ella says, resting her hand on top of his.

“How did you get this?” he asks, throat unbearably dry.

“I went to the archives and they converted it for me. The quality wasn’t so good, but they managed to remaster it a little. And this is the final product. It’s as good as they could get it.”

Severus can’t stop looking at the date, at the way the one looks almost like a seven, the top line unnecessarily elongated.

1970.

His mother would have been twenty years old. She’d had him three years later. In those three years, she’d abandoned her passion, her gift. She’d moved away from London.

She’d met his father. She’d… fallen in love?

Was there ever love between them, or was it something else that tried to pass for love? Something darker, in disguise?

He’s holding back tears. Maybe Ella realises this because the hand that was resting on his is suddenly holding it.

“I’ve never heard her play before,” he whispers

She nods. “I thought so. I’ve listened to it a lot. It’s very good. There’s just three pieces, though. I wish it were longer.”

He wants to thank her, but all he can do is nod. Her hand, small and pale like a baby bird, squeezes his tighter.

“I know the first one is Chopin. The other two I’m not sure. The second one is my favourite. And Aunt Constance says she thinks the last one is Ravel.”

She stays silent for a while after that. Maybe she’s expecting him to say something, but he couldn’t possibly speak.

“It was important for me to do this for you,” she finally says. “You’ve done a lot for me without even knowing. With your books. I think you’re the reason I started writing. I thought it was only fair that I repay you in some way.”

He clears his throat, slips the CD case in his coat pocket. “You’ve really read all my books?”

“All of them. _Even the French ones_ ,” she says proudly, switching languages easily. “ _My favourite is Peaux mortes_.”

Severus raises a quizzical eyebrow. “ _Isn’t that one a little explicit for you?_ ”

She laughs. “ _That’s what my mum said. But then my dad said that books are better than other things, and to leave me be_.”

“ _Your French is very good_.”

“ _Thank you! I’ve been taking lessons for years..._ ”

There’s three sharp knocks at the bedroom door and a second later it creaks open and Constance’s face appears.

“Ella, darling, your mother wants–”

She trails off as soon as she gets a full look at the room and her gaze falls on Severus. Her eyes widen in an almost comical way that makes Ella laugh.

“Oh my God... Sev...” Constance gasps, stepping fully into the bedroom.

Before he knows it, Severus is standing and she’s pulling him into a tight hug. He feels her sigh against him, head pressed against his chest, and his heart tightens.

To think that he was going to turn back, that he didn’t want to come. How disappointed, how heartbroken she would have been.

_You’re so fucking selfish, Severus Prince._

“I missed you so bloody much,” Constance says, her voice muffled into his shirt.

He presses a kiss into her dark hair, just above her forehead.

“Me too.”

“I’ll go see what my mum wants,” Ella says quietly before leaving the room.

After a minute or so, Constance pulls back to smile up at him. Severus examines her face, so familiar and yet so visibly changed by the years. She’s aged well.

She’s always been an elegant woman, but she’s even more so now, it seems. Her hair is pulled back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and there are small, barely-noticeable wrinkles under her eyes. She looks incredibly sophisticated in her black lace dress.

Though her hair is as dark as everyone else’s in the family, Constance’s eyes are blue. She’s the only one without the characteristically dark Prince eyes. Oscar used to mess with her when she was little, telling her she was adopted but that their mum and dad would pretend otherwise if she asked.

She takes Severus’ face in her hands, eyes suddenly sad.

“I’m sorry about Colin,” she tells him softly, in a tone that makes it obvious she knows he doesn’t want to talk about it, but that she wants to tell him this anyway.

She says the name the English way and he doesn’t correct her. Maybe he should start saying it like this also.

In French, the last syllable seems to stretch like a question. A proposition. Something unfinished. In English, the name sounds more final. Like the end of a sentence.

“I wish I’d known him,” she adds.

He nods but doesn’t answer.

 _No, you don’t,_ he wants to say. _Sometimes I wish I hadn’t._

“When did you get here?” she asks then, probably sensing his discomfort. “I didn’t even hear the doorbell.”

“I don’t know, fifteen minutes ago? I didn’t even have time to ring. She just dragged me inside.”

Constance laughs. Oh, how he’s missed that laugh.

“She’s great, isn’t she? She’s the smartest kid I know. She wants to be a writer, like you. You should read some of the stuff she writes. I think you’d be jealous.”

“Me? When have I ever been jealous of another writer?”

It’s like they’re teenagers again, hanging out in his bedroom, joking around. It’s amazing how time changes and yet remains the same.

“Did she give you the CD?” Constance asks, and he pats his pocket in response. “That was so thoughtful of her. I almost cried when she told me what she’d done.”

“I can’t believe she kept all this stuff,” Severus says, gesturing around the room.

“I’m glad she kept it,” Constance says softly. “This way, even if you’re away, it still feels like you’re here with us. The rest of your things is in the attic. Anna was in a frenzy, but I was never going to let her throw away anything of yours.”

He takes her hand and they just stand there for a moment, looking at the room. She leans against his shoulder. It feels like they saw each other only yesterday.

“I should have called you more often,” he tells her.

She huffs, like this is the least of her worries.

“I didn’t call either. You don’t have to take all the blame. That’s how life is, Sev. It gets in the way. Besides, you had other things to worry about,” she finishes softly.

He’s reticent to acknowledge this, unwilling to go there again. “I suppose,” he says shortly.

“Let’s go downstairs?” Constance says then.

He sighs. “If we must.”

She stares at him suspiciously. “You had a drink before you came here, didn’t you?”

“Does my breath smell?”

“No, but I can tell,” she teases, grabbing onto his arm as they leave the bedroom and head downstairs. “Still need to get pissed to tolerate the plebs, don’t you? Time may change things, but Severus Prince remains the same.”

“Tell that to my grey hair,” he says bitterly.

She guffaws. “Oh please, you have like one. I actually have to dye my roots once a month.”

“Yes, yes. Look at you, two old geezers,” says a voice from around the corner and a second later a tall, elegantly-dressed man in his late sixties appears in the staircase. “You’ll be wishing you have grey hair when it’s all gone,” he adds, patting his own bald skull.

“Uncle Joachim,” Severus greets him.

“Severus, my boy,” the older man says affectionately, kissing him on both cheeks. “Look at you. As handsome as ever. When did you get so bloody tall?”

“I’ve always been tall. I think you’re the one who shrank.”

Uncle Joachim chuckles and waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, stop, stop, flattery will get you nowhere. Now when did you get here? Constance, why didn’t you tell me he’d arrived?”

“Ella stole him away.”

“Oh, that mischievous girl. I don’t know where she gets it from. Not from her parents, that much is sure. Not an ounce of wit in either of them.”

“Oh, I know where she gets it from,” Constance says with a grin, throwing Severus a sidelong glance.

He finds himself being escorted down the stairs by Constance on one side and his uncle on the other.

“I assume business is going well for you?” Severus asks his uncle. “I see kids in Paris wearing your creations all the time.”

Joachim beams up at him. “Well, I certainly can’t complain. Last fashion week was a real triumph. Now we’re thinking of opening a shop in the city. If all goes well, it should be done before September.”

“Who would have thought that the Prince name would ever come to be associated with high fashion?” Constance says and Severus hums in agreement.

“Sky is the limit, my dears. It’s a shame Dennis can’t be with us tonight,” their uncle says sadly, referring to his partner. “We’ve had some shipment problems and he’s been trying to get to the bottom of it for days now.”

They’ve reached the ground floor, where Severus’ other uncle is waiting for them.

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in!” the man exclaims loudly, pulling Severus into a paternal hug.

Uncle Ferdinand is Constance, Oscar and Gwen’s father. Everything about him is loud and blunt. He is almost as tall as Severus, but square-shouldered and broad-chested where Severus is more on the slim side. In fact, Severus and Constance have often wondered if maybe Ferdinand is the result of a secret affair their grandmother could have had at the beginning of her marriage because he bears absolutely no resemblance to their grandfather.

“Is he here yet?” a woman’s voice calls from the direction of the dining room.

“He’s been here a while, Anna!” Constance yells. “Your daughter dragged him in from the street.”

“Oh, that girl! Where is she off to now?” Anna replies in annoyance.

Ferdinand shakes his head before turning back to Severus. “How have you been, my boy?”

“Better,” Severus says, keeping his answer short.

His uncle simply nods in understanding before patting his cheek affectionately. “I’m glad to hear that. And I’m glad to see you back.”

“The prodigal cousin returns!” Oscar says as he emerges from the living-room.

His cousin has hardly changed at all. At forty-five, he still manages to look like a gangly teenager. Apparently, some people never really grow up, even when they’re married fathers and heads of prestigious home security companies.

And then, just to prove Severus’ point, Oscar says, “I found one of those cigars we used to nick from Grandfather. Thought we could smoke it after dinner if you’re up for it.”

“Sure,” Severus says, trying not to smile.

Constance is grinning at him. He’s sure she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Let me take your coat,” she says suddenly, pulling it off him and hanging it in the hall before smoothing down his lapel, which he’s done an awful job ironing.

A thin woman in a dark red dress appears at the end of the hallway. It’s Oscar’s wife, Anna.

“Are you people going to stand there chatting all night?” she asks briskly before disappearing again.

As is their cue, they all head towards the dining-room. Constance’s hand is still holding his, for which Severus is grateful.

He breathes steadily.

So far so good. This is okay. He can do this.

“Have you seen what they did to the house?” Uncle Joachim whispers in his ear. “Mother would have a fit if she knew.”

“Thankfully she never will,” Constance says softly. “Have you gone to see her, Sev?”

His stomach tightens. His grandmother has been in a home for five years or so, but he’s never visited her there. From what they’ve told him, her dementia is quite advanced.

“No, I haven’t seen her.”

“Oh, don’t go, darling,” Uncle Joachim says.

Oscar is hanging back. He must have overheard. “It’s hard for me, I can’t imagine what it would be like for you,” he tells Severus. “Mostly all she does is sleep anyway.”

“Don’t go,” Constance agrees softly. “She wouldn’t want you to see her like this.”

Severus only nods.

Surprisingly enough, dinner is to take place in what Severus’ grandmother used to call the ‘informal’ dining room, directly adjacent to the kitchen, but which, in any regular household, would never be qualified as ‘informal.’ The table is large enough to hold ten people, but two more chairs have been added. Even more surprisingly, Oscar’s wife, Anna, and Severus’ Aunt Evelyn have been doing the cooking, with some assistance from Constance’s husband.

It’s a strange sight to see. Severus’ grandparents had always hired chefs. He remarks on that.

“We’re rarely all together at meals. Everyone has work or school or some other thing getting in the way,” Aunt Evelyn tells him after hugging him tightly. “It didn’t feel necessary now.”

“It’s a new era,” Uncle Joachim adds. “This isn’t like _Downton Abbey_ anymore.”

“Where are the children?” Anna asks.

“Lazing about, probably,” Oscar says, reaching over to grab a piece of vegetable and getting his hand slapped away.

Constance leads Severus towards her husband, who’s busy trying to pop the cork on a bottle of sparkling wine. “Sev, you remember George?”

“Yes, of course.”

They’d met years before when Severus last visited London. That was the year of the T.S. Eliot Prize. George is a gifted architect. He was working on some plans for a new public library the last time Severus talked to him, and he's worked on many more prestigious projects since then.

“Nice to see you again, Severus,” George says. “I’m glad you’re back, so she can finally stop talking about it.”

He fakes annoyance, but he says this looking at Constance with a loving smile.

Dinner, it turns out, is a quiet affair. They’re all squeezed at the table, a little too close for comfort, but Severus prefers this room to the large dining-room with its long, polished table where you need to yell if you want to be heard by someone at the other end.

He sits next to Constance, and Ella sits on his right, with the sole intention to tear him away from boring conversation topics by asking him a thousand questions about Paris. Until, that is, her mother scolds her for monopolising their guest.

Her brother and sister are sitting across the table. As Ella said, they’re both much older than she is.

Johanna, the twenty-year-old who attends the Royal Music Academy, has everything a classical singer should possess. She’s tall and thin, much fairer in complexion than her siblings. Her hair is a light chestnut brown, falling in rivulets over her shoulders, but she has the dark Prince eyes, large and hooded. Severus has no doubt she will be a revelation once she steps on stage at the Royal Opera House, as she tells him is her intention.

At twenty-two, Nicholas, the eldest child, has a constant sort of smirk on his face that Severus finds unsettling. It’s as if the boy knows something everyone else doesn’t or is trying to make everyone believe so. He has the habit of laughing quietly under his breath at the most random statements, which seems to irritate Ella to no end, judging by the way her nose scrunches up every time this happens. Physically, he’s the very image of his father at his age, except he’s got this ease about him that Oscar’s lankier frame never allowed him to possess. He’s attending Saïd Business School in Oxford, he tells Severus lazily, like he doesn’t really care about all this and just has no other choice but to do what his parents demand of him.

Gwen arrives late. She’s the most hectic person Severus knows, always dashing through life briskly and matter-of-factly. Of his three cousins, she’s the most like her father and it’s a wonder it was Oscar and not her who eventually took over the family business. A prominent barrister, Gwen has never married, not even been engaged. This doesn’t mean her love life is lacking, however, as both Anna and Constance openly tease her about her long string of lovers.

“This isn’t right, Gwen,” Aunt Evelyn reprimands in a polite but admonishing tone. “You’re almost forty-five, you should find yourself a good man and stop this nonsense. It’s unbecoming.”

Gwen groans in exasperation and takes a long sip of wine. “Exactly, I’m old now. It’s much too late for me, why don’t you let this go? And why aren’t we talking about Sev? I thought he was the reason we were all summoned here today.”

“I meant to ask, do you still own that bookshop?” Uncle Joachim asks Severus suddenly, and Gwen sighs with obvious relief.

Ella’s head whips to stare at him. “You own a bookshop?”

Nicholas quietly snorts with laughter again and his little sister shoots him a dark glare.

“I still own it, yes,” Severus says, ignoring the boy. “It’s called _Le Dénouement_ , and it’s near the Sorbonne, where I studied. It was going to close when I bought it, but I’m only the owner on paper. Someone else manages it for me.”

“I wanted to stop by when I was in Paris, but I couldn’t remember the name,” Joachim says.

“Ella, no, not at the table, please,” Anna tells her daughter, who’s already pulled out her phone to look it up.

“Aunt Constance told me you visited Professor Lupin the other day,” Ella tells him instead, ignoring her mother but putting her phone away still. “He’s very popular at Hoggarts, but I don’t like him very much. He won’t let me join his school club.”

“He said you were welcome to join next year, darling,” Constance reminds her.

“It’s no big loss,” Severus tells her. "I hear they’re discussing _Beowulf_."

Ella smirks at him and fakes a shiver of revulsion.

“One of his former students was there the other night,” Severus adds in what he hopes is a casual tone. “Harry Potter. He finished Hoggarts... two years ago?”

Truthfully, he’s been wanting to mention this since they sat down. Hoggarts is a small school and surely Johanna or Nicholas have heard of him. Even though he now knows with absolute certainty that he’ll never see Harry again, he’s still desperate for every single bit of information about the boy.

At the mere mention of the name, like he’s been doing all evening, Nicholas scoffs in derision. This time, however, he shares a knowing look with Johanna, though his sister doesn’t react the same way. She remains impassive and nods politely in Severus’ direction.

“The violinist, yes,” she says simply. “He was in my year. Nicholas, stop it,” she snaps at her brother, who’s started sniggering not very subtly.

“Nicholas Prince,” Anna snaps at her son, finally. “I’m warning you!”

“I didn’t know he played violin,” Severus says.

He keeps his cool, but this single bit of information overwhelms him. He feels like a man dying of thirst who’s just been unexpectedly offered a tall glass of ice-cold water.

“Oh, he does. Exquisitely so,” Johanna says.

“He was fly-half for Griffin’s house team,” Nicholas finally says in his raspy, drawling voice. “Rugby,” he adds arrogantly, assuming Severus doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

From the tone of this statement alone, Severus can easily guess that Nicholas played on an opposite team. He was probably in Slater House, as is common for almost every member of the Prince family.

Technically, students are sorted into Hoggarts houses based on their skills, but in some cases, old blood and tradition takes over technicalities.

So, Harry plays violin and rugby. Severus relishes those new discoveries, but he doesn’t press the subject, not wanting to seem over-eager to discuss Harry, though he’s dying to.

The rest of dinner is uneventful. Oscar discusses Prince Security until everyone starts to lose interest and then Constance saves the conversation, telling them all about the new collection soon to be published by the Folio Society, where she works. Nobody questions Severus further about his life, for which he is immensely grateful, and suspects Constance has something to do with.

After dessert, as planned, Severus follows Oscar into their grandfather’s old study, where they fall into large leather armchairs and light a cigar.

“You haven’t remodelled this room,” Severus remarks, taking a long drag and wincing at the bitterness.

“Couldn’t bring myself to do anything to it,” Oscar says with a shrug. “It feels... I don’t know. Historic.”

Severus nods. “Mythical.”

Oscar grins. “Mythical, yeah. You always find the right words.”

“Good thing, too, or I’d be out of a job.”

“I meant to ask you, how’s the flat?”

“It serves its purpose,” Severus says, passing him back the cigar.

His cousin cringes. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s not the flat. It’s me,” Severus replies quietly.

Oscar nods.

“Listen,” he says after a while, quite seriously, which is uncommon for him. “I know we’ve never been as close you and I as you’ve always been with Constance. And I know you guys never really took me seriously. Two witty, bookish folks like you, you’ve got nothing in common with an old bore like me, but if you ever need to... you know, just hang out, you can always give me a call, alright?”

“That’s... really kind of you, Os,” Severus tells him, taking back the cigar, though he has trouble imagining what hanging out with Oscar would be like, until he realises this is sort of what he’s doing right now.

Oscar smiles at his old nickname. “You know Constance basically threatened all of us not to mention Colin, right?” he says slowly, as if testing the subject, patting softly to make sure the ground is solid.

Severus chuckles briefly. “I figured so.”

“You can tell me anything, you know,” Oscar says again, choking on the smoke a little.

Severus is starting to be seriously weirded out by this strangely mature version of his goofy cousin. “Oh, anything? Really?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Alright then,” Severus says, sitting up. “Your son is a snarky little shit,” he declares.

As expected, Oscar roars with laughter. “Oh, you noticed that, did you?”

“Yes, yes I did. And I’ve got one more thing to tell you. This cigar is bloody disgusting.”

“Oh, god. I know! How could we ever smoke these?”

“They were always disgusting. We just refused to admit it because we wanted to seem cooler than we were.”

“We were pathetic, weren’t we?” Oscar says, unfolding his lanky body from the armchair to snuff out the cigar before heading towards the bar. “Thankfully, Grandfather had better taste in brandy.”

Around their second glass, they are joined by Constance and George, who help themselves to the brandy and curl up on the leather sofa. It doesn’t take long for the four of them to erupt into uncontrollable bouts of laughter every minute or so as the three cousins reminisce on their time at Hoggarts and George shares anecdotes of his own years at Eton.

It’s way past midnight when Severus takes his leave, dangerously tipsy, after hugging both his cousins and an equally-inebriated George.

They promise to do this again, and Constance threatens him as he gets into a cab. He better call soon, or else...

The cabbie is an older man listening to a symphony that Severus doesn’t recognise, but the sound of strings immediately reminds him of Harry.

 _The violinist_ , Johanna said.

Fuck. The thought of Harry playing violin. The thought of Harry playing rugby. The thought of Harry, just Harry, turns him on instantly. He’s so easily turned on when he’s drunk, but the thought of Harry on top of it all.

Suddenly he’s so aroused he’s dizzy with it.

He asks the cabbie to hurry it up. Fuck, he can’t wait to get home. He’ll call Lupin. When he gets home he’ll call Lupin and threaten him.

 _Give me Harry’s number. It’s none of your business what I use it for. It’s none of your business what we do_.

Then it occurs to him that he doesn’t have to wait to call Lupin. He’s saved the number in his phone. He can call him right now.

A wave of clarity hits him then. No, no, no. He’s not going to call Lupin in the middle of the night. He’s drunk and out of his mind. This is decidedly a bad idea. The man has a wife and child, Severus would wake up the whole house. Surely this would anger Lupin, and he would certainly not be very inclined to give him Harry’s number then.

Harry.

Severus is hard just thinking about the possibility of getting a hold of Harry tonight.

He would call Harry, invite him to his place, lay him on his bed and suck him dry.

The thought is nothing short of electrifying.

Would Harry be loud? he wonders. Then he remembers the way Harry laughs, so freely, uninhibited. He remembers Harry’s laughing face, surrounded by smoke under the street-lamps. And he decides that yes, Harry would be the loud kind.

Or maybe he would suddenly turn bashful, try to hide it. This alternative arouses Severus even more. He would pry Harry’s hands from his mouth, tell him to be as loud as he wants. He would ask Harry to tell him exactly what he wants, what he likes, how he wants to be touched. Fuck, Severus wants to hear all of this, wants to see Harry’s gorgeous eyes darken as he comes.

Yes, Severus would make him come first, then he would spread Harry open with his tongue...

He stifles a groan, taking a look at the cabbie in the mirror, as if to make sure the driver hasn’t somehow managed to read his thoughts. The man is ignoring him, eyes on the road, humming along to the music.

Severus discards his coat as soon as he steps inside the flat, determined to wank himself raw, but then something slips out of his pocket, clatters on the floor, and all thoughts of Harry evaporate from his mind.

It’s the disk Ella’s given him. It had completely slipped his thoughts.

The sight of it is like a sudden cold shower and he stares at it, conflicted.

He wants to listen to it, desperately. But he already knows it will destroy him.

He slides it into the player anyway. It will destroy him, but there is no other choice. Not listening to it has never been an option.

The quality is far from perfect. There is an uncanny echo and you can hear the auditorium seats creaking, the throats clearing and the whispers, but Severus listens religiously, afraid to even breathe too loudly and risk missing a single sound.

There is approximately fifteen seconds of background noise, then polite applause, and then the music starts.

Ella was right, the first piece is Chopin. It’s one of the Nocturnes, though Severus doesn’t know exactly which one.

The first few notes are like a shard of ice through his heart. Barely two measures in and he’s already sobbing, sitting on the floor of the living-room, arms around his knees like a little boy.

Forty-three years ago, a beautiful young woman played Chopin for her friends and family. Did she suspect what would happen barely three years down the road? Did she have any idea what would become of her?

No, probably not. Never in a hundred years could she have imagined that her life would take such a direction. That she would become alienated from the people she loved and who loved her. That she would marry young and grow miserable and spend the rest of her life battered and bruised and sobbing in the dark. That she would have a son who would live the rest of his life haunted by the existence she had chosen for them.

That at the age of thirty she would take some pills and fall asleep and never wake up again.

As he listens to her playing, Severus remembers how she would suddenly stare into space sometimes. It would happen at random, in the middle of the afternoon while folding laundry, in the morning as she drank her coffee, or at the dinner table while his father ranted about the work conditions at the mill. Suddenly she would seem to slip away, and her fingers would twitch on her lap, almost imperceptibly. And then this look came to her eyes, like she was elsewhere completely, on another plane. It would last a few seconds and then she would blink slowly and come back to reality, hum in response to what had been said, or smile softly at Severus when she noticed him staring at her.

It’s only now, so many years later, that Severus understands it all. The twitching fingers, the look of longing in her eyes.

By the time the song ends, his sobs have subsided, and Severus can only gasp in exhaustion, chest heaving painfully.

There is applause, a few seconds of silence, and the next piece starts.

Ella said it’s her favourite though she doesn’t know what it is, but Severus knows it’s _Le Rappel des oiseaux_ from Rameau.

It was written for harpsichord originally and he’s never heard it played on piano before. It’s light and joyous compared to the previous piece, almost aerial, just like a flight of small birds.

The last piece does sound like Ravel at first, but it’s not. It’s an Impromptu by Sibelius. He’s not a very well-known composer, and Severus isn’t extremely well-versed in classical music – he doesn’t know what he knows until details resurface at random – but he’s familiar with Sibelius’ work simply because he was a favourite of his grandfather.

Surely his mother knew this. It must be precisely why she chose this piece for her recital’s finale. It’s fucking beautiful.

The disk ends too soon, abruptly, cutting off the last few measures of the piece, and Severus sits in silence for a long time, so heartbroken he’s almost nauseous.

He curls up on the floor and remains there for a long time, listening to the silence.

 

* * *

 

Strangely, unexpectedly, no bad dreams come to him that night.

When he wakes up in the morning, still curled up on the floor, his back pressed against the sofa, Severus feels well-rested. Despite the ache in his neck and shoulders from the terrible sleep position, his mind is at ease.

Maybe last night, listening to his mother, thinking about her this way – young and happy and playing Chopin – even though it hurt at the time, maybe this was the catharsis he needed.

Now all he remembers from sleep is how he floated on his back in the waterhole for a time, thinking how the tree leaves were the colour of Harry’s eyes.

His cock stirs as soon as Harry’s name crosses his mind. He tries to find again the strong, raw desire he felt last night, but it’s nowhere to be found, out of reach. What he finds instead is something completely different. Something softer, warmer.

He strokes himself slowly, thinking of licking the length of a pale neck, of tangling his fingers in dark hair, of mouthing behind an ear. He imagines Harry’s quiet moans as he would take both their cocks in hand and stroke firmly, slowly, making it last as long as it possibly can. Harry would grip his shoulders, lost in pleasure, swear under his breath and whisper Severus’ name as he comes, arching beautifully against him.

Severus comes harder than he’s done in years, and he struggles for breath long afterwards, limbs trembling.

This boy will be the death of him.

There is no long, hot bath this morning. It’s a cold shower that he needs. Oddly enough, he finds himself humming the Chopin nocturne as he soaps himself up, but all it conjures up is a sort of numb, inevitable sadness. No tears come this time.

It’s like he’s opened a door inside himself last night. Or no, not a door. A window. He’s opened a window that had been nailed shut for years, letting the sun and the wind inside, casting out dust and shadows. He can breathe easier somehow.

He’s starving, but he still has no food at home. There’s a small grocery store around the corner, where he’s only set foot once since his arrival, but it doesn’t have a particularly interesting selection.

He takes a quick look outside. The day is grey and overcast, but there’s no rain yet. He dresses in a hurry and decides to head to Borough Market. Then, later today, he decides, as he looks at his reflection in the mirror, he will try to find somewhere to get a decent haircut.

He’s just about to head out when his phone rings. Once again, it’s an unknown London number.

His heart hammers in his chest as he accepts the call.

“Hello?” he says, throat suddenly dry.

“Hi. It’s Ella.”

“Oh.” It’s strange how he’s relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Let me guess, Constance gave you my number?”

“Not really. I stole it out of her phone. She really should lock it, you know.”

Wherever she is, it’s very noisy in the background, with people talking and music playing from somewhere in the distance.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“Oh, I am. It’s break right now. I’m in between lessons. I just wanted to know if you’d like to meet sometime. We didn’t really get a chance to talk much yesterday. How about later today? Well, only if you’re not too hung over.” she teases him.

“Who’s hung over? I’m not hung over!” he says, feigning offence.

“Well, my dad is, for one.”

“He could never quite hold his liquor.”

“So, do you want to meet up or not? I have to go back soon. Well, only if you want to, that is! Don’t feel obliged to say yes!” she adds, suddenly nervous.

“No, no, I’d love to. Only, tomorrow would work better for me. I have some errands to do today, and I have to get a haircut.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t. I think it suits you this way.”

“Very kind of you, but it’s become bothersome. Tomorrow okay?”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“What time do you get off school, three o’clock?”

“Yes. Let’s not meet at _The Three Broomsticks_ , though. Kids there are wankers. I’ll text you the address of a nice little tea house a few blocks away. Does that work for you?”

“It’s perfect.” The last thing he wants is to happen on Lupin again.

“I have to go now. See you, Severus!”

He saves her number in his phone after she hangs up. Barely a minute later, she texts him the address, as promised.

He realises with amusement suddenly how busy he is. He, Severus Prince, who’s spent the last few weeks afraid to set foot out the door, suddenly has plans and things he wants to do, and people he has to meet.

But this is good, isn’t it? At least he won’t have to stay shut up at home, longing for something he’ll never have.

As he walks to the tube, he breathes in the chilly March air. It already smells like spring. The scent of new beginnings. He breathes in deeply, trying to let this scent, this feeling through the recently-opened window inside of him.

Even the bustling market doesn’t manage to unsettle him. He makes his way through it all, buying things here and there. He’s desperately hungry, hungry for everything.

When did his appetite return? Are appetite and desire linked somehow? Do they come and go together?

As he pays for a basket of pears, he decides he should stay on guard.

Today is a good day. Good days come, but eventually go. Two days ago, he thought he was feeling better, and then everything crumbled under his feet. He could be happy today and never want to get out of bed again tomorrow. He shouldn’t rely on one good day and go thinking everything is perfect again. This isn’t how life works. For him, anyway.

He’s looking at tomatoes. There’s this great pasta sauce Marine makes and he’s desperately trying to remember all the ingredients. People are chatting away loudly in Italian somewhere nearby, making it hard for him to concentrate. There’s no way in hell he’s going to call Marine to ask for the recipe, so he’s just going to have to make do without. He’s a decent cook anyway, he could probably manage something good on his own.

He’s paying for six large, juicy tomatoes when he hears it.

A familiar laugh, coming from somewhere behind him.

It sends a tingle from his spine up to the top of his head. It makes his heart flutter in his chest.

He turns, ignoring the vendor trying to hand him back his spare change.

Harry is standing right there, only a few yards away from him.

Severus recognises him even without seeing his face, only from the back of his head. He recognises the tousled curls, dark as night, and the navy-blue pea coat he wears without a scarf or gloves, with the collar up.

From what he can understand with the vague notions of Italian he possesses, a vendor is giving Harry directions on the correct way to make pesto.

Severus has been standing so close to them, within hearing distance, for almost ten minutes now without noticing. How could he not notice?

Harry’s voice sounds different in Italian. That’s probably why Severus hasn’t recognised it. Languages do that. He himself has often been told how much different he sounds when speaking French.

He finally takes his change back for the tomatoes and moves swiftly away.

He’s wanted to see Harry again for two days, hasn’t been able to get him out of his head really, has been longing and waiting for his call, has wanked off to thoughts of him, and now that Harry is here, right here, Severus finds himself hiding, watching from afar.

Harry turns slightly, addressing a woman whom one could easily assume is the vendor’s wife, and Severus finally sees his profiled face.

God, he’s beautiful. Severus had almost forgotten how much. So much so that it twists his guts.

What the hell was he thinking, that he could ever invite this boy over to his place, have him in his bed? Just look at him! How could someone like that be interested in him?

Surely Lupin was mistaken when he said Harry had noticed him. What the bloody hell does ‘noticing’ mean, anyway?

Fuck! Severus was such an idiot to believe this, to hold on to this.

Lupin was probably messing with him. He’d seen the way Severus had looked at Harry and he wanted to make him suffer.

He watches as Harry buys something from the Italian couple and says goodbye before walking away.

And then, because Severus is a pathetic coward, he follows him from a safe distance.

He walks ten or so paces behind Harry, casually, like so many others wandering through the market. No one would know they’ve met before, or that Severus is stalking.

He’s entranced by the way Harry walks, hands in his pockets, bag dangling from his shoulder, completely at ease in the crowd in a way he himself could never manage.

Before long, Severus finds himself following him down into the tube.

_For God’s sake, Severus! Just go up to him and say something, you bloody idiot!_

But he doesn’t.

_This is what you wanted! This is what you’ve been hoping for! It’s here now! Take it!_

_Please look at me,_ he thinks instead as he stands on the platform, still keeping his distance. _Please, please, please, look at me. I’m not strong enough to do this, to go to you. Please come to me._

_Please let me get what I want this time._

But still, Harry doesn’t notice him. He’s fiddling with his phone, adjusting the earbuds.

Severus wonders what music he’s listening to, then decides he doesn’t want to know. Teenagers listen to the most horrendous things nowadays.

If Harry were music, he would be classical. A piano work? By Ravel? Oh, no, too quaint. An etude by Liszt, something tempestuous and overwhelmingly intricate. Or something else. A piece by that Icelandic band Marine likes so much. Something ephemeral and otherworldly.

The train arrives and they both get on, at separate ends of the carriage.

Severus stands near the doors. He wants Harry to see him, but still a part of him is ready to run for it the second the boy gazes his way. But Harry doesn’t.

He should move closer, he knows it.

_He can’t see you if you don’t move closer! Give yourself a chance._

But Severus doesn’t.

 _Look at me_ , he thinks. _Please look at me._

There’s barely anyone in the carriage. If Harry only looked this way, he would see him.

There’s a young couple sitting near Severus, chatting and cuddling and being disgustingly sweet with each other. The girl erupts in a sudden fit of laughter so loud Harry must have heard it over his music because he turns to look her way.

His eyes drift over to Severus briefly, then he turns back to his phone.

No reaction. Whatsoever.

It’s like a slap in the face. All the breath has left Severus’ lungs.

He steps closer to the doors. He’ll make a run for it as soon as the train stops. It’s not his station, but it doesn’t matter. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

He turns back for one last look, there’s no stopping himself, but when he does, Harry is staring right at him.

Severus watches, breathless, as a frown forms on the boy’s face, then a flash of recognition, impossible to miss, and then the most beautiful smile he’s seen in his life.

He can’t breathe, doesn’t know what to do. Should he nod? Should he wave? He can’t decide, can’t think.

Before he knows it, Harry is walking up to him, making his way across the carriage, with that gorgeous fucking smile on his face.

But then, something happens. Severus watches as the smile falters, and for barely a second, Harry hesitates, looks at him differently, large green eyes fixed on him in an unreadable expression. And for that one second, panic fills Severus.

What has the boy seen on his face? He wasn’t being careful! Does he still look like he’s about to be sick?

He forces his lips into a smile. It’s not that difficult, really, with Harry standing right there, only a few paces away. And suddenly Harry is smiling back, as simple as that. And then he’s standing right in front of Severus, close enough to touch.

“I almost didn’t recognise you without the beard,” is what Harry tells him first.

Severus is so relieved he lets out a bark of laughter that somehow manages to make Harry’s smile grow even more.

“Why didn’t you come over and say hello?” Harry asks then.

_Yes, Severus. Why didn’t you?_

“I didn’t see you at first,” he explains, trying not to stutter out the words. “Then I didn’t want to bother you.”

Harry shakes his head and laughs. “That’s ridiculous. Do I look busy to you? I’ve just been to the market... And so have you, apparently!” he says, noticing Severus’ bags.

“Yes, what a coincidence.”

Harry is shorter than him by six inches or so and has to look up to make eye contact. Under the bright, artificial lights of the train, his eyes light up like painted glass.

Once again, Severus finds himself speechless in front of him.

“There’s this shop I just love,” Harry tells him. “The owners are from Calabria, so I always try to stop by and practice my Italian. They gave me the best eggplant parmigiana recipe.”

“That sounds delicious,” Severus says, his mouth terribly dry.

He’s never stood so close to Harry before. There’s a dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks. They’re barely noticeable, but Severus notices.

“You know what?” Harry says suddenly. “Why don’t you come to dinner sometime? If you want to, that is–”

“Yes.” The word comes out almost brusquely, and Severus would be ashamed of it, but it brings back Harry’s smile and he can’t bring himself to be upset about it. “I’ll come to dinner,” he adds. “Yes. I want to.”

“Are you free tomorrow night? Around six?”

“Yes. That sounds perfect. Around six. Tomorrow night.”

_For fuck’s sake, Severus. Stop repeating everything he says._

“Brilliant. I’ll give you my address, then.”

Severus takes out his phone, and types it in the notes app, doing his best not to let his fingers tremble. Harry is standing so close to him he can almost feel the boy’s breath on his hands as he looks down at the screen, making sure the wording is right.

“Yes, that’s it. I should probably give you my number too, just in case,” Harry says, looking up at him.

Severus just stares at him. Harry stares back, waiting for an answer.

Severus doesn’t know what it is exactly that slips away from him in this moment. He’s always prided himself on his control over his emotions, even when nervous, even when unnerved, he can stand his ground. He only ever lets the cover slip when he’s alone, when he’s home and he’s scared and lonely and he can’t take it anymore. The rest of the time, he soldiers through. He’s worked at this for years. On some days it’s harder than others, but it mostly works for him.

But in this moment, this one moment, it’s something else entirely that slips away from him. Maybe something that’s been unknown to him, that’s appeared along with his appetite and his sexual desire, which he’d thought were both gone for good.

In this moment, as Harry stares at him expectantly, he doesn’t know why or how, but he leans forward – he barely needs to, they’re standing so close already – and he presses his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth. And before he knows it, before he can realise what’s going on and pull away in horror, his tongue is sliding softly across Harry’s bottom lip.

It’s the shaky breath that Harry lets out against his mouth that snaps him out of it.

When he pulls away, a cold ball of fear already swelling inside his ribcage, Harry’s big eyes are staring at him again with this unreadable expression he’s glimpsed at barely a minute ago.

It’s all over in a second. Reality falls back into place in a thunder of noise. The train is coming to a halt, wheels screeching against metal.

They’ve been standing in front of the doors and people bump into them as they push into the carriage swiftly. Harry stumbles and Severus takes the opportunity to slip out of the carriage right as the doors slide shut again.

He gets barely a glimpse of Harry’s startled face searching for his among the strangers before the train departs again.

Oh, how history repeats itself.

Once again Severus finds himself standing on a platform, shivering in self-hatred.

What the bloody hell is wrong with him? What right did he have to go and do that?

Harry in his navy-blue coat. Beautiful Harry and his breathtaking eyes. Harry who plays violin, who loves Proust and speaks fluent Italian. Harry would never want to be with Severus.

Poor Severus who isn’t sure he even knows how to love someone anymore. Poor old, broken Severus who doesn’t remember what it feels like to have a heart that beats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> – The program Severus watches is Brian Cox’s Wonders of the Universe.
> 
> – The lines from T.S. Eliot are from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
> 
> – The song playing in Ella’s bedroom is, of course “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” from The Smiths. While you’re at it you should check out Cloud Boat’s hauntingly beautiful cover of this song, which I listened to on a lot while writing the last part of this chapter.
> 
> – The title of Severus’ poetry book “Peaux Mortes” translates to “Dead Skins.” 
> 
> – The three pieces of Eileen’s recital are Frederic Chopin’s Nocturne op.48 no.1 in C Minor, Jean-Philippe Rameau’s Le Rappel des Oiseaux, and Jean Sibelius’ Impromptu no.5 in B Minor.
> 
> – That “Icelandic band Marine loves so much” is, of course, Sigur Rós.


	3. glamorous hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When he turns back, Harry is staring at him, green eyes wide and unreadable. Then, mirroring his gesture, Harry’s hand touches his wrist. Tentatively, fingers graze the fabric of his jumper before slipping into his palm. Graceful fingers, Severus notes, unmistakably a musician’s... How could he not notice this before? He closes his hand around them. Is this a dream? They’re standing so close Severus could easily lean down and kiss him again, and now that he knows – how on earth can this be possible? – that maybe Harry wouldn’t stop him.._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this monster of a chapter will make up for the wait. I have to admit that this is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. Harry proved much more difficult to write than I expected. You’ll see a lot more of him in this chapter. A whole lot more... to make up for the slow start, to unravel the mystery a little. He’s such a beautiful mess.
> 
> Finally, I want to thank everyone for the lovely comments. I’m truly overwhelmed by all the kind words and so relieved that my hard work has paid off and my writing managed to reach you in the way I was hoping it would.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND EDITED ON 18-12-2018.

* * *

 

 

-3-  
**glamorous hell**

 

_Tectonic plates are shifting beneath my skin_  
_and there’s a new continent in my chest_  
_that I want to call by your name._

SHINJI MOON

 

* * *

 

When Severus’ mother died, he was the one who found her body.

That morning, when he woke up and didn’t find her in the kitchen as per usual, he’d gone back upstairs to see if she was ill. Or hurt. Most likely hurt.

But she was lying lifeless in bed, her body already cold.

He remembers everything about that day. His whole childhood is nothing but a hazy mass of memories, a succession of undefined, dreary days bleeding into each other. But that day is branded into his mind like his father’s cigarette burns on the kitchen table.

What he remembers most is the silence.

It was a Sunday, which meant no humming noise from the mill nearby, no chatter from the neighbourhood kids heading for school. Nothing but the spasmodic clanging of the pipes, the purr of the old refrigerator, and the creaking floorboards under his feet.

His father was nowhere to be seen, as was a regular occurrence on weekend mornings. He had passed out in the pub or somewhere on his way home and would reappear in early afternoon, hungry and tired and hostile.

But for the moment, there was only silence. A short respite. The eye of the storm.

He knew she was dead as soon as he saw her. Her skin had turned white, same as her nightgown, same as the bedsheets. And the bruise on her cheek, which the night before was dark red, had blackened and spread to cover almost half her face.

But Severus didn’t go to her, didn’t even set foot in the room. Doing so would make everything real, and standing there in the doorway, it was easy to convince himself that the woman lying in his mother’s bed was not his mother.

She didn’t even really look like her at all. If he looked hard enough, long enough, it could have been anyone else. Why couldn’t it be anyone else?

He couldn’t find the courage to step inside the room, but he couldn’t find it in him to leave and get help either. He couldn’t tear his eyes off her, this stranger in his mother’s bed, in his mother’s clothes. This stranger who was no stranger at all, no matter how he squinted his eyes.

He sat in the doorway for hours, unable to get closer and unable to leave. Frozen in place. Staring.

It was his father coming home that snapped him out of it. He must have yelled and raged as soon as he barged into the house to find that not only there was no food on the table and no tea waiting for him, there was also no one to be found to let his anger out on. But Severus heard none of that. He wasn’t aware of his father’s presence until the man stood right behind him.

But he didn’t say anything. His father, the most illustriously verbose Tobias Snape, didn’t say a word at the sight that greeted him that day. His wife lying lifeless in bed and his son watching her from a safe distance. Then, after what seemed like a lifetime had passed, he grabbed the collar of Severus’ shirt and pulled him to his feet.

There was no violence in the gesture, no force or anger. Only a kind of gentle firmness that he had never felt from his father before. Severus stood up, legs trembling. His father kept a steady hand on the nape of his neck and they remained there for a time, staring.

It was the first thing they’d ever really done together, as father and son.

“Go to your room,” his father said after a while in his deep, rumbling voice. But again, there was no anger to be found as he nudged Severus into the hallway.

As he always did, Severus obeyed.

His father’s hand stayed on him until he was out of reach.

_That’s what death is like_ , Severus thinks now, so many years later. _Cold fingers on the back of your neck._

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this now, precisely.

That’s a lie. He knows why. His anxiety does that. It brings out every humiliation, every embarrassment, every single bad thing he’s ever done or that’s ever happened to him. It dredges them up from the confines of his mind and shoves them down his throat, tries to choke him with them.

It makes him lie awake all night, arguing with himself, torn between panic at what a stupid thing he’s done, and longing at the ghostly feel of Harry’s lips against his.

The kiss, this semblance of a kiss, lasted barely a second, but Severus could feed off the memory for years. And he’ll probably have to. Because this is it. This is all he’ll ever get.

Who even does something like that? How could he be so fucking careless?

He was given another chance! What were the odds of meeting Harry like that, at random, in a city with eight million people in it? It was fate! It had to be! He was given another chance and he went and ruined it!

And still, despite the horror, the shame, the panic, he’s holding on to the smallest glimmer of hope.

Harry’s invited him to dinner. Maybe he’s not completely indifferent. Maybe Lupin was right…

_Don’t be daft, Severus! How could he be interested in you? Have you seen him?_

Yes. Yes, he’s seen him. Of course, he’s seen him.

Severus sees him even when he doesn’t. Sees him with his eyes closed.

He’s being stupid. Inviting someone to dinner doesn’t mean anything.

And even if Harry was interested when he invited him, why would he want to have anything to do with Severus now? Now that he’s crossed this line, now that he’s gone and kissed him like that, in public, without asking.

By the time morning comes, he’s made his decision. He can’t go to dinner. He cannot possibly. Not now, even though he’s dying to see Harry again. He has to cancel. But he can’t cancel. He ran off before Harry could give him his number.

Around noon, he gets a text from Ella, wanting to make sure he hasn’t forgotten about their meeting today.

He had forgotten. At first, he wants to tell her he can’t make it, that he wants to postpone, but he can’t quite find an excuse or a way to say this that doesn’t sound completely melodramatic or fake.

Then he realises that it’s only noon, that he still has a whole day of pacing, overthinking, changing his mind again and again. And he decides that he should just go and have tea with Ella. If only to kill time. It’s the better alternative.

He takes a long bath, washes his hair, shaves, and then goes through the drawers in search of something to wear. He settles for black slacks, bespoke, like almost everything he owns. And a simple jumper, in dark blue.

He tries to eat something, he really does, but nothing looks appealing, his stomach is in knots, and he’s just on the verge of being nauseous. When he finds himself walking in circles in the flat, he decides to leave early, go to the tea house, and wait for Ella to finish school.

_Trelawney’s_ is a cozy little place not far from Hoggarts but tucked away in a less-frequented alley. It has small, round tables, soft armchairs, an overwhelmingly bohemian-themed décor, and a strong smell of incense.

They serve over a hundred different kinds of tea, all stacked in colourful glass jars on the shelves around the room, and the teacups themselves must cost a fortune, all handmade and delicately painted, unique and beautiful.

There are little bookshelves along the walls, where Severus finds a small leather-bound copy of _Hamlet_ that he browses through absent-mindedly.

He tries to read some of it. He hasn’t touched Shakespeare in years, surely a consequence of living in France so long. But he can’t concentrate. The words vanish from his thoughts as soon as he sees them and evaporate before he can catch them.

For some reason, this puts him in a foul mood.

He can’t sleep, he can barely eat, he can’t write, and now he can’t read.

What’s next? Will he lose his bloody mind, too?

_When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions._

Indeed.

Ella walks in a little after three o’clock, among a small group of students, but Severus can immediately tell they’re not her friends, that they just happened to enter at the same time. She sends one of them, a tall boy with an abnormally large chin and quite a wide forehead, a dark glare before approaching Severus’ table.

“Hi! Have you been here long?”

Her hair is tied up in a neat bun on top of her head and she’s wearing an elegant black serge coat that she drapes over an armchair, revealing her school uniform underneath – black blazer and green-and-silver tie of Slater House.

_House of the cunning,_ Severus thinks with a smile.

“Who’s that, Prince?” the boy calls out before Severus can answer. “Your sugar daddy?” He then bursts into a fit of hiccupping laughter.

Severus is about to say something scathing, but Ella beats him to it.

“He’s my uncle, you stupid fuckwad! Piss off!”

The boy turns bright red and heads towards the opposite side of the room, his friends teasing him.

“Sorry about that,” Ella says with an annoyed sigh as she sits down heavily across from Severus. “Maybe we should have met at _The Three Broomsticks_ after all. Then again, he probably would have just followed me there.”

“Is that boy giving you trouble?”

“Him?” She snorts, waving her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. He’s just an idiot. He used to ask me out all the time and now he’s upset because I rejected him in front of his little friends. He’ll get over it.”

She seems completely unfazed by what’s just happened, like this mild bullying is the least of her worries, and Severus can’t help but admire her for it. He could have never taken it this lightly at her age.

“You don’t mind that I told him you’re my uncle, do you? I know that technically, you’re sort of my cousin, but since you were so close with my dad and–”

“I don’t mind. Just don’t go calling me Uncle. It sounds too strange. Severus is just fine.”

“You didn’t cut your hair,” she remarks. “Did you change your mind?”

“I didn’t quite have time yesterday. I’ve merely decided to postpone.”

“I meant what I said. You shouldn’t cut it, it suits you.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

Ella smiles. She’s picked up the extensive tea menu and is leafing through it rapidly, as though it’s expected of her, but it’s obvious she already knows what she wants.

“I’ll have the Darjeeling white, please,” she says when the waitress comes by. “What did you get?”

“Earl Grey.”

She makes a face but doesn’t comment on it. Then she eyes him attentively for a while before asking, softly. “Are you doing okay?”

Damn it. How can she be so bloody perceptive?

“I’m fine,” Severus says, aware that he’s gripping his teacup unnecessarily tightly for someone who’s fine.

“You didn’t have to come, you know. We could have met any other time. I don’t mind at all.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I think I needed to get out today. Sometimes I feel like–” He stops, unsure exactly what he was going to say.

“Are you feeling homesick?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that.”

She’s about to say something but stops when the waitress brings her tea. Then she takes the time to add a little bit of lemon before she speaks again, tentatively. “Do you miss him?”

It takes a few seconds to occur to him that she’s talking about Colin.

“It’s not quite that either.”

She nods quietly.

“You can talk to me, you know,” she says after a little while. “I know I’m just a kid, but still, maybe I could help. Or I could listen, at least.”

“Thank you, Ella, but… I wouldn’t know where to start.”

She nods again but doesn’t push him. They sit in silence.

“I listened to the CD,” he says finally.

Her face lights up. “And?”

“I have no words. I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“There’s no need to thank me.”

“The piece you like, the second one, it’s by Rameau.”

“Oh, thank you. I’ll be sure to look it up.”

They fall silent again. It’s not totally uncomfortable, but they don’t seem to have this ease they had the first time they met. Maybe it’s just the different setting that has brought this change. Maybe they both felt more comfortable in the familiarity of Ella’s bedroom. Maybe they should have met back at the house again. Or maybe Ella’s sensed his troubled state of mind and is simply pondering how to interact with this different Severus.

Thank God he didn’t agree to meet her yesterday. She would have been scarred for life if she’d seen what a nervous wreck he was then.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back to Paris?” she asks, in the casual tone of general chit-chat.

It’s just as he suspected. She’s sensed his discomfort and is trying to work around the situation the best she can.

“I don’t know,” he says shortly. “Maybe.”

“You say that like it depends on something.”

“Maybe it does,” he admits, resigned.

“Oh?”

She’s looking at him curiously now, eyebrows raised.

“I… met someone.”

It’s almost a relief, saying it, admitting it.

Maybe he’s made it sound much more serious than it really is, like something meaningful has happened besides two brief chats and a stolen kiss, but it feels good nonetheless. Like an addict admitting he has a problem, revealing what’s secretly been eating at him.

“Did you really?” Ella asks, wide-eyed.

“Yes, but I think I messed up.”

“Why?”

“I lost control.”

God, could he make it sound any more dramatic?

“What did you do?” she asks slowly, raising her teacup but then putting it back down on the table without drinking from it.

He pauses. “I kissed him.”

Yes, he could make it sound more dramatic. And he just did.

She blinks at him. “You kissed him? Kissing is… what you call losing control?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have used this expression, he realises, suddenly embarrassed.

“Well, yes, considering it was in public and I barely know him–”

“In public?”

“On the train.”

“And what did he have to say about it?”

“Nothing.”

“So, you kissed him, and he just said nothing?” she asks disbelievingly. “That’s a bit rude.”

Severus clears his throat. Here it comes.

“He didn’t really have… I suppose I didn’t exactly give him time to… I ran away.”

Ella remains silent, processing his words. From the look on her face, he has the strong impression she really wants to laugh but is holding back.

Finally, the corner of her mouth twitches. “Do you realise how that sounds?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he says, maybe a bit gruffly.

She frowns. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just think you’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting?”

“It wasn’t a crime, Severus. It was just a kiss. It happens. People who barely know each other kiss all the time.”

“Maybe they do, but I don’t.”

Ella shakes her head at him, almost like one would at a stubborn child. “Did he push you away? Did he look upset?”

“No.”

“Did you like kissing him? Would you want to do it again?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t understand what the problem is.”

What the fuck is he even doing, confiding in a teenage girl? Of course, she wouldn’t understand! How could she possibly understand? She’s fourteen years old, and she’s swatting boys away left and right like flies. She’s got her whole life ahead of her, she’s lost nothing, has never known any hardships, has never been hurt. She can afford to take risks, to miss out, because there’ll be a thousand more opportunities in store for her. She couldn’t possibly understand what he’s going through.

She’s smart, but she’s just a child.

Severus won’t let himself be fooled by her dark, ageless eyes again.

“The problem is that I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want him,” he hisses. “I’m forty years old, and I’ve never felt this way before. And now I’m afraid I’ve been too forward, and that he’ll get the wrong impression.”

“What wrong impression?” Ella asks softly.

“I don’t just want to be with him. I mean, I do, but… it goes deeper than that. Oh god, I can’t talk to you about this.”

“It’s okay. I understand what you mean.”

She’s looking at him with her dark, piercing eyes, her features softened, and he thinks that yes, maybe she does understand what he means. But then again, it might still just be the eyes.

“We were supposed to meet tonight, but I can’t possibly… What if he’s mad at me? I couldn’t bear it.”

Ella remains silent. She’s finished her tea while he was talking.

He’s barely touched his. It’s gone cold a long time ago.

“If it’s like you said, you can’t just walk away, Severus,” she says finally. “You have to see him. If he’s mad, you try to fix it. If he’s not, well, all the better. But if you walk away, you’ll never know. There’s nothing complicated about this,” she finishes with a shrug.

Severus sighs heavily. “How are you so wise?”

“Must be genetics,” she says playfully.

He snorts. “With your dad, I doubt it.”

“Well, it’s not my mum either, so it must come from somewhere else.”

And just like that, on the words of a fourteen-year-old girl, he’s decided to go. At least to explain, to apologise.

He’ll tell Harry he’s sorry. Then he’ll let the boy yell at him, insult him if he wants to. He deserves it.

Yes, he will go. Tonight, he will go to the address Harry has given him, and he will tell Harry that he won’t be staying for dinner, that he just wanted to say he’s sorry.

_Forgive me,_ he’ll say. _I’m just a lonely, broken man who hides. Each day, every day, I hide. And I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you, didn’t know such a thing existed, and I slipped up, I couldn’t help myself. I was out of my mind, have been ever since I met you. Please don’t hate me for it. I’ll leave now. I just wanted to tell you this. I just wanted to see you._

Because yes, more than anything, Severus just wants to see him again. Even if it’s to be laughed at.

He would suffer the humiliation if it only meant he could set eyes on Harry just one last time.

He could do whatever he wants with him, this boy, and Severus would let him.

They change the subject, and the conversation flows more easily after that. They talk about school and books, and Severus asks Ella what she’s planning to do after Hoggarts. She admits she’d like to visit him in Paris some time, if he ever lives there again. She’s always wanted to see the city, the museums, the theatres.

Curiously, she asks if he’s working on anything new, and he’s honest for once. He tells her about his struggle of the past few years. She ends up reassuring him, certain inspiration will come to him in due time, and asks if he’d be willing to have a look at some of her writings. She barely manages to hide her glee when he accepts and immediately takes his email address, promising to send some of her best work.

They talk about everything and nothing, never mentioning the mysterious kiss again. Ella doesn’t ask, probably feeling that the topic is now out of bounds.

Severus’ stomach is like a cage full of wild animals. Since he’s decided to see Harry tonight, he can barely hide the shaking in his hands. He orders another cup of tea, simply to have something warm to hold on to.

Six o’clock approaches faster than he’d hoped, and soon Ella says she needs to head home, that she has an essay to work on before dinner. They part, with promises to meet again. He watches her get on a bus before heading towards the tube.

He knows the address by heart, knew it the moment it passed Harry’s lips. There was never any need to write it down.

It’s in Islington, but what Severus finds there is not at all what he expected. He was imagining a small block of flats, but 12, Grimmauld Place is a tall brownstone terraced house. Certainly not the kind of place where one would expect a nineteen-year-old to live.

It dawns on him then, an icy chill down his spine, that Harry might still be living with his guardians.

He’s only nineteen after all! Why on earth didn’t Severus think of this sooner?

What sort of dinner was he invited to, exactly? A semi-formal affair with relatives?

_You’re an idiot, Severus. A fucking idiot._

He almost turns back. But he can’t.

Ella’s right. He can’t walk away from this. If he walks away, he’ll never know.

He has to know.

Somehow, without knowing exactly how he manages to muster the courage to, Severus knocks on the door.

There are voices and sounds coming from inside the house, some sort of commotion, and then the door opens to reveal a young man around Harry’s age. He’s shorter and chubby, with a kind face and a head of thick, shaggy blond hair.

He looks surprised to see Severus, eyes him up and down quickly, looking hesitant.

“Is it the pizza?” a girl’s voice calls from the inside.

Seeing as Severus is not carrying a pizza, or definitely does not look like the kind of man who carries a pizza, realisation lights up on the boy’s face.

“Are you here to see Harry?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Is it the pizza?” the girl asks again, much louder.

“It’s not the pizza! Stop shouting!” the boy calls out over his shoulder. “Well, come on in then,” he tells Severus, somewhat uncertainly.

“Thank you.”

Severus steps into a dimly-lit, narrow hallway. A brief look around shows him wooden doorframes, brass light sconces and peeling wallpaper. This is an old house, indeed. Then he notices a mountain of shoes and boots near the door, and a bulging coat rack on his left.

No guardians then, but definitely a ton of housemates.

Severus can live with that.

“Harry!” the boy calls loudly. “Your guest is here!”

There’s no answer, but Severus can hear the definite sounds of a telly somewhere overhead and he looks up curiously. The entrance hall’s ceiling is so high he can see all the way to the rafters. From the first floor, a girl is peering down at him, leaning on a bannister.

“Thanks, Nev.”

Severus’ attention snaps back to the ground floor just in time to see Harry emerge from the shadows at the end of the hallway.

The sight of him. God, just the sight of him, messy-haired and lean-bodied and gorgeous, and Severus struggles to keep all manner of composure.

Tonight, he’s wearing a pair of dark-rimmed wayfarers that make him look adorably owlish. He looks even younger somehow.

_Oh, why did you do this? Why did you come here?_ Severus thinks miserably.

There is no way this will end well. Just no way.

“You’re late,” Harry tells him as Nev walks up the stairs, staring back at them over his shoulder.

It occurs to Severus then, with startling realisation, that Harry doesn’t look mad at all. He does, however, look slightly flustered.

Could he be… nervous?

“I had decided not to come,” Severus tells him.

To his greatest shame, the words come out barely a whisper. But then again, he’d rather Harry’s housemates not hear this conversation.

“Why?” Harry asks softly, confused.

Risking a glance overhead, Severus finds that the girl has disappeared. There’s no trace of Nev either.

“You know… Because of yesterday. I feel terrible. I had no right to do that. I won’t be staying, I just came to apologise…”

He trails off. Harry is smiling up at him, eyes alight with amusement.

Is this really happening?

“You think I would have let you kiss me if I didn’t want you to?” the boy asks under his breath. “You think I let just anyone kiss me?”

He’s feigning offence, teasing. Severus was certainly not expecting that.

“That’s not what I… No.”

Harry laughs then, silently, just a light huff of breath, but his eyes light up with it, and warmth spreads through Severus’ body.

“So, you’ll stay then?” Harry asks softly. “I’ve been cooking. It would be very rude of you not to stay.”

“I’ll stay.”

_I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Name it. Make a list. I’ll do anything, everything. I just want to be with you._

And here it is again, that breathtaking smile of his, the one from the tube.

How can the whole world not be at this boy’s feet when he smiles like that?

“Perfect. You can take off your coat and just put your shoes… Oh fuck, look at this mess! My housemates are pigs…”

While Harry desperately tries to line up the mass of shoes properly near the door, Severus slips off his coat and locates a free hook on the rack, right next to the one he recognises as Harry’s. He hangs it there and then, unable to stop himself, brushes his fingers lightly along the sleeve of Harry’s blue coat. The wool is soft under his fingertips.

When he turns back, Harry is staring at him, green eyes wide and unreadable. Then, mirroring his gesture, Harry’s hand touches his wrist. Tentatively, fingers graze the fabric of his jumper before slipping into his hand.

Graceful fingers, Severus notes. Unmistakably a musician’s. How could he not notice this before? He closes his hand around them.

Is this a dream?

They’re standing so close Severus could easily lean down and kiss him again. And now that he knows that maybe Harry wouldn’t stop him…

“Come on,” Harry says. “Dinner’s ready.”

Severus lets himself be led into the shadows, deeper into the house. Harry could be leading him to his death, into a madman’s clutches, and it wouldn’t matter. His whole world is reduced to the hand holding his.

Powerless, he follows Harry down a narrow staircase at the end of the hallway and into a large kitchen filled with warmth, glowing light, and delicious smells.

A very tall, very ginger young man is leaning over a dish cooling off on the counter. Harry’s hand immediately slips from Severus’ and he rushes over.

“Ron, get your fucking hands off that!” he hisses, trying to push the redhead away from the food he’s been picking at.

“Oh, come on! There’s so much of it!”

He’s so much taller and broader that Harry’s attempts to shove him remain completely useless. Grinning, Ron removes a thick layer of melted cheese from the top of the dish and boldly pops it into his mouth, looking directly at Harry in provocation.

“Stop it!” Harry rages, punching him angrily in the chest. “It’s not for you! You’ve had dinner already! I told everyone, no one in the kitchen tonight after six! Now fuck off!”

Ron frowns, still chewing, until Harry pointedly jerks his head towards Severus, who’s standing near the door watching them.

Realisation dawns on Ron’s face and he swallows thickly.

“Oh! Oh, fuck! Sorry, mate, I didn’t know you were… expecting someone… Hi, I’m Ron,” he finishes with an awkward nod at Severus.

“Severus.”

Ron’s eyebrows raise in amusement. “Really? Like Severus Pr–”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s Severus Prince,” Harry summarises moodily, trying to hurry formalities along, already pushing Ron towards the door.

“Seriously? Hermione will murder you if you don’t introduce her–”

“Don’t worry, she’s already threatened to. Bye, Ron.”

Harry pushes him harder into the doorway, but Ron grabs onto the doorframe in protest.

“So, you’re not coming to Dean’s tonight to watch the game with us?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Definitely not,” Harry says bluntly.

“Oh, alright then. Well… be good,” he tells Harry softly. “I shouldn’t be home too late.”

This last bit sounds harsher, and the redhead risks a look in Severus’ direction, as in warning.

Harry’s eyes narrow dangerously. “We’re just having dinner, Ron. Now piss off!”

Ron pauses, as if he’s about to add something, then simply frowns and heads up the stairs without a word.

Harry groans, flushed with embarrassment, raking a shaky hand through his hair before rushing over to the dish to inspect the damage.

“Sorry about that,” he tells Severus with a cringe. “They’re like bloody vultures, the lot of them.”

“I don’t think your friend likes me.”

“Oh, don’t take it personally. He just worries about me,” Harry says distractedly.

Severus can’t blame him. He can imagine what it would be like to find out your young, gorgeous friend has invited a strange forty-year-old man to dinner.

He remembers what Lupin told him on the phone, that people tend to take advantage of Harry, and that he’s often had to pick up the pieces.

No doubt Ron has had to pick up his fair share of pieces also.

“I’ll just add a bit of cheese and pop this back in the oven for a bit. Have a seat,” Harry tells him, gesturing towards the large wooden table that takes up most of the room. It’s already set for two at the end closest to the door.

Severus sits and watches silently as Harry puts the finishing touches to their meal.

He’s obviously prepared the eggplant parmigiana he’s told Severus about, and the smell is mouth-watering.

But it’s not all that makes Severus’ mouth water, he realises with some embarrassment.

Harry is wearing an old, faded grey Pink Floyd t-shirt and Severus watches in fascination at the way the thin fabric falls on his shoulder blades, at the ripple of lithe muscles underneath as he moves.

And God… Harry’s arse in these jeans…

Severus turns away, face burning up, and looks around the room.

The wall facing him has been painted black and written on in chalk.

He smirks. It’s a list of do’s and don’ts for the tenants. The first one says:

_Clean your shit up. No dirty dishes left overnight. Ever._

The last one goes:

_No smoking indoors. Of any kind._

Harry has obviously made an effort for him. The silverware and crystal wine glasses on the table were surely fished out of the fancy stuff in the dining-room.

The thought of a crowd of teenagers living in such a house is intriguing. Severus is about to ask for details when he notices the book on the table, which Harry was most likely reading while waiting for him to arrive.

It’s _Madame Bovary_ , the translated _Penguins Classics_ edition, and it’s a veritable mess of dog-eared pages, margin notes and underlined passages.

Severus would normally cringe at such a sight. How can anyone treat a book like this? But it troubles him in an entirely different way.

It’s almost as if he envies the book its ability to withhold Harry’s attention. Oh, how he would like to be examined the same way, to be pored over, to be analysed.

He would like Harry to mark him, to underline in him his favourite things, the ones he never wants to forget.

He looks through the book to avoid looking at Harry and comes upon a quote underlined in black pen.

_Love, she thought, must come suddenly, with great outbursts and lightnings – a hurricane of the skies, which falls upon life, revolutionises it, roots up the will like a leaf, and sweeps the whole heart into the abyss._

“How do you like the book?” Severus asks, throat suddenly dry.

He thinks it’s well about time he tries to start a conversation. This will be a very long night if all he can do is stare at Harry in mesmerised mutism.

Harry looks over his shoulder, sees him holding the novel and smiles.

“I love it. I’m completely hooked. I already know what happens, that it ends badly, and it’s heartbreaking already, but beautifully written.”

“Which part are you on?”

“Rodolphe just broke it off, the big prick. You drink wine, don’t you?” Harry asks suddenly, rummaging through the huge refrigerator.

“Yes, of course.”

“Perfect.”

“So, this house… How many of you live here?” Severus asks.

“Right now, there’s six of us,” Harry explains, taking a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator. “Ron and I are on the fourth floor. We were at Hoggarts together. He’s training to be a police officer.”

Severus represses a smirk. That explains the protective behaviour.

“Then there’s Neville you’ve met earlier. He was at Hoggarts with us, too. He’s studying Biology at King’s College. He’s on the third floor, along with Tamlyn and Baz, who share the big bedroom. She runs a café, and he’s a tattoo artist. And there’s Kim on the first floor, she’s an Art History student. We’ve got a free room on the second. I’ve put up an ad just the other day.”

Severus watches as he grabs a corkscrew from a drawer and opens the bottle with practiced ease.

“I’ve got a few applicants already. I hate doing the interviews,” he adds, “but it’s a necessary evil. You don’t want to end up living with just anyone, right?”

“Couldn’t the owner take care of that?”

“Oh, he is. This is my house,” Harry tells him, pouring wine into Severus’ glass first, and then his own.

“Your house? This one?”

Harry smiles. “Yeah, I know it sounds unlikely, but it’s true. I inherited it from my godfather. You knew Sirius?”

“Sirius Black?”

“Yes. He died five years ago. Left it to me. I wasn’t going to live here all by myself. It’s huge, and it’s grim enough already, so I’m renting out the rooms.”

Black is dead then. Hardly surprising for such a reckless git, but Severus doesn’t comment on that. Harry is obviously uncomfortable with the topic.

Instead, Severus points to the bottle of wine, the label of which he’s just noticed.

“This is expensive, Harry,” he says, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to–”

Harry smiles, putting a hand on his shoulder to appease him, briefly, but the touch is enough for Severus’ insides to churn in pleasure.

“There’s a cellar here, don’t worry. I have to keep it locked, of course.”

“I imagine you’d have to,” Severus says before taking a sip.

The wine is sweet as sin and reminds him of summers in Cassis. He nods at Harry in appreciation.

There’s a sharp ‘ding’ from an egg-timer and the boy rushes over to the oven to take the dish out.

“I can’t cut this now or it’ll fall apart, so we’ll have salad while it cools off,” he tells Severus over his shoulder.

The salad is delectable. Pale lettuce and fresh mint leaves with chunks of honeydew and what Severus had first thought to be olives but turn out to be black grapes. All of this is sprinkled with goat cheese and pine nuts. The dressing is light and citrusy. He enjoys every bite in silence, letting the flavours flood his mouth.

“You like it?”

Harry is smiling at him, fork in hand. He doesn’t appear to have touched his food yet. He’s staring intently at Severus.

“It’s delicious.”

There’s a buzzing sound coming from somewhere nearby and Harry grimaces, fishing into his jeans pocket to pull out his phone. He takes a brief look at the screen before putting it away. It keeps buzzing.

“Sorry about that,” he says before digging into his salad.

“You can answer it if you want, I don’t mind.”

“It’s okay, it’s just Remus,” Harry says with a shrug. “He’s been harassing me. He’s upset because I told him I’d apply to college and I didn’t. And now the deadlines have passed and… Well, anyway. He’s being such a pain lately.”

Severus takes a long sip of wine, suddenly uncomfortable.

Should he tell Harry that the man called to threaten him?

“Why didn’t you apply?” he asks instead.

Harry shrugs. “I wasn’t going to, I only said I would to get him off my back for a while. He thinks I’m wasting my time. He thinks I need a father figure in my life and now that Sirius is gone, it’s up to him somehow… I don’t know. I’ve always managed on my own…” He trails off, not looking at Severus.

“It seems to me you’re doing just fine,” Severus says, dying to reach out and touch his hand.

Harry shrugs again. He seems about to speak, then takes a sip of wine instead.

“That’s kind of you to say,” he finally says, but there’s an undertone to it, something unsaid. Something close to bitterness.

Something like, _You don’t know me very well, so you can’t possibly know, but thank you for saying that anyway, I’m working very hard to keep up the pretence_.

“If you were going to college, what would you want to study?” Severus asks, out of curiosity.

“Oh, I don’t know. Lots of subjects interest me, but… school has never really been my thing. I mean, I had good enough grades, but… I used to get in trouble a lot.”

“Really?”

Severus doesn’t know why he’s surprised, considering who the boy’s father was.

“I never liked people telling me what I’m supposed to think,” Harry explains with a shrug.

“Ah, and Hoggarts is full of those.”

Harry nods his head. He takes several sips of wine before speaking again.

“I think if I could do anything I want with my life, I would just travel all the time. I would never stay put. But, well… We’re all a little stuck, I suppose. Apart from that trip to Rome years ago, I’ve never really been anywhere. You must have travelled a lot.”

Severus snorts. “Not as much as you’d think. I’ve spent a semester abroad in Montreal when I was doing my Masters. Apart from that, I’ve had opportunities to travel, mostly for book tours, but… Truthfully, I’m quite a nervous flyer. I despise taking the plane.”

Harry grins. “Oh, I love it! That bit, right at takeoff, that bit where the wheels just lift off the ground. I just love it.”

“Are you serious? That bloody terrifies me.”

Harry throws his head back laughing.

It’s just as beautiful as when Severus saw it the first time.

“Every time I see a plane overhead, I feel small,” Harry says then, in confidence. “Does it ever do that to you? I don’t know, it makes me feel… unimportant. Like other people’s lives are so much more interesting than mine. They get to go somewhere, and I’m stuck here. And then… it’s crazy, but I can’t help it, I start wondering what it would be like to see the plane explode, just like that, in flight. Because of a mechanical problem, or a terrorist attack, something like that, killing all the passengers in a fraction of a second. And then I wonder if I’d be close enough to get hit by debris, by a piece of reactor, maybe. Oh, fuck, I’m sorry! That’s terribly macabre.”

He trails off, laughing again, removing his glasses briefly to rub his face in embarrassment. “I think I’ve been drinking my wine too fast,” he admits.

By the time they get to the main dish, which is bloody fantastic, Harry has opened a second bottle. A red, this time, but equally as shockingly expensive. They’re both flushed but much more comfortable around each other by then. When Harry sits back down, he scoots his chair closer to Severus’.

“If you hadn’t become a writer, what do you think you’d be doing?”

“I don’t know, honestly. Like I said, my family wanted me to become a chemist, but… I’ve always had a thing for geography.”

Harry raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Geography? Really?”

“We didn’t have many books in the house when I was growing up,” Severus explains. “One day, I found some old atlases in the attic, and I would read them over and over, look at the maps, memorise the countries and the capitals.”

“You like geography, but you don’t like travelling?”

“Mostly it’s water that’s always fascinated me. The seas, the rivers, the lakes. Besides… I think it was Murakami who wrote that no matter how far you travel, you can never get away from yourself…”

Severus trails off, blushing. The wine must be getting to his head, too.

“ _It’s like your shadow. It follows you everywhere_ ,” Harry quotes, smiling. “Yeah, that’s Murakami. I think I’ve read all of his books.”

They talk about that for a while, then from Murakami they switch back to Proust and talk about his conception of memory.

Severus tells Harry about his years at the Sorbonne, about the subject of his thesis and the lectures he’s attended.

He learns that Harry’s been a vegetarian for three years, that he often goes to the Tate Modern on his days off from work, and that he loves Tarkovsky and Bergman.

Severus is feeding off those details desperately, committing them all to memory. He wants to know everything. Everything.

At some point, Harry excuses himself and disappears up the stairs for a minute. He comes back holding a pack of cigarettes and lights one at the table.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

In any other situation, Severus would take offence at anyone smoking indoors, but of course he can only stare.

He would suck the smoke out of Harry’s mouth if he could.

“Don’t tell. I’m not supposed to smoke in here,” Harry says, jerking his head towards the rules on the wall. “But it’s my house, right?” he jokes.

They finish the second bottle and open a third, helping themselves to another serving of the eggplant dish, and then to a piece of cheesecake that Harry bought from a shop because he’s ‘rubbish at baking.’

Severus looks at him, memorising everything. The way he laughs, the way he talks, the words he uses. The curve of his lips, of his eyes. How the runes of the tattoo on his forearm curl when they reach his wrist, so dark against the paleness of his skin that they look black. How he pushes his glasses back ever so slightly, a soft nudge with his knuckles. How he tends to ruffle his hair when he blushes, as if to brush off the embarrassment.

Before Severus knows it, six bloody hours have gone by in the blink of an eye. It’s almost midnight, and the rest of the house seems to have gone quiet.

It’s a miracle they’ve been undisturbed for so long, Harry assures him, but most of his housemates have school in the morning and will be in bed already.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have had so much wine. I have to work early,” the boy says as he starts clearing up the table, stumbling ever so slightly as he stands up.

Severus follows him to the sink, equally tipsy. “Let me help with the washing up.”

“No, please. You’re my guest.”

“Really, I insist. It’ll be much faster. I’ll wash, you dry.”

They do the dishes in silence, washing and rinsing and drying.

Severus wants to help because he can’t stand to be away.

There’s a small cluster of moles on the side of Harry’s neck, just where it meets his collarbone, that looks like a constellation, and he desperately wants to kiss it.

“It’s getting late,” he says when the dishes are clean and dry, and Harry’s wrapped up the leftovers and put them away. “I should be going.”

_Ask me to stay_ , he thinks. _Ask me to stay. Please, ask me._

“Okay,” Harry says softly.

They walk up the stairs together, and into the dark hallway. The lights have been dimmed even more for the night, and Severus loses sight of Harry completely until they’re standing near the front door, right under a sconce.

Harry’s fingers graze his, softly. Like they’re dying to grab on, to intertwine. To stop him from going.

_Ask me to stay_ , Severus thinks desperately. _If you ask me to stay, I will._

Harry’s staring at his lips. God, he wants Severus to kiss him.

It would be rude not to oblige, wouldn’t it?

He leans in, watching as Harry’s eyes flutter shut and he lifts his head, waiting.

Fuck. Severus wants him so much the longing shoots through his body like a spasm of pain. Like fire, like lava.

But Severus doesn’t kiss him. He turns his head at the last moment, letting his nose graze Harry’s cheek softly to whisper in his ear instead.

“Ask me to stay.”

“Stay,” Harry immediately breathes out against his skin.

His hand grips Severus’ tightly, their fingers intertwining naturally, as if they’ve been made to, Harry’s thinner ones fitting perfectly between his.

As earlier, Severus lets himself be led into the darkness, this time up the staircase. And damn it, he’s hard already, desire and alcohol coursing through his veins.

Harry stops on the first landing and puts a finger to his lips. The telly is still on in the den, the volume low, and someone has fallen asleep on the sofa. Severus recognises the girl from earlier, her ponytail hanging off the armrest.

Silently, they make their way up to the fourth floor. Harry stops in front of a door with a poster stuck to it, a banner of sorts, made of red paper with a golden crown painted on it. _Weasley is the King!_ it reads.

There’s the definite sound of snores coming from inside. Harry grins before pulling Severus away and into the bedroom at the end of the hall. He shuts the door softly behind them and Severus hears the lock click into place as he looks around.

The only light comes from a table lamp near the window. The bed is a massive antique, an old four-poster of dark wood that undoubtedly came with the house, and there’s a matching dresser and desk in the corner. A large bookcase, also made of the same wood, is overflowing onto the floor, filled beyond capacity. Shelves have been added on the walls, but they, too, are full. Of books, records, picture frames. An entire bedroom wall is taken up by hundreds of photographs.

There’s a reproduction of Whistler on the opposite wall. _Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket._

Severus has seen it before and thought it beautiful, despite his general dislike of the Impressionists. He finds it even more beautiful now because Harry is seeing it every day. Because it is seeing him.

Harry walks across the room towards another door, which he locks, too.

“Bathroom,” he tells Severus. “I share with Ron.”

Severus is looking at the books on a shelf beside the desk.

Whitman, Keats, Auden…

“You said you didn’t like poetry,” he says quietly, pointing at the tomes.

Harry grins. “I lied.”

Severus picks up _Silhouettes_ from the desk, frowning. “And you said you hadn’t read anything I’ve written.”

Harry shifts closer, leaning back on the desk, watching him. “Yeah. That was a lie, too.”

“Why did you lie?” Severus asks, shaking his head.

Harry shrugs, a mischievous look in his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see how you’d react. I read an article about you once, and they said you were obnoxious. I got curious what you’d say if I… denigrated you. Just a bit.”

“I am,” Severus blurts out.

Harry huffs a laugh. “What?”

“I am obnoxious.”

“You don’t seem so to me.”

“It’s… different with you,” Severus tells him, searching for the right words. “You disarm me.”

Harry only stares at him, eyes wide behind his glasses. Then he lets out a shaky breath and rakes a hand through his messy curls, looking away.

“So, are you gonna kiss me again or what?” he whispers after a time. “I didn’t bring you up here just to show you my books.”

Oh God…

Severus takes a deep breath, in and out, and puts the book away. Then he reaches out to remove Harry’s glasses from his face, folds them and sets them down on the desk gently.

“I can’t see for shit without those,” Harry tells him in amusement.

“Just stay close to me, then.”

And then his hand is on the back of Harry’s head, pulling the boy forward.

And then finally, finally their lips meet. Properly meet.

Harry’s mouth opens against his at once, and Severus licks into it hungrily, desperately, grazing teeth. A soft, warm tongue slides against his own, and they kiss until their lips and chins are slick with spit, until they’re breathless.

He feels Harry smile against his mouth as they stop to catch their breath, then they’re at it again.

Severus can’t remember ever kissing anyone this way. He’s kissed passionately before, feverishly, but this…

This is something else entirely. Something he doesn’t have a name for.

As Harry’s mouth moves against his, something stirs in Severus’ chest. An unknown, softly trembling thing, ready to expand. If he were to let it grow, he knows it would take over everything. It scares him, and yet part of him wants to set it loose.

As they try to make their way to the bed, blindly, unwilling to let go of each other’s mouths and tipsy with wine, they collide with an agglomeration of paperbacks near the dresser. The whole pile collapses against the wall with a thud.

“Shhh! My housemates!” Harry gasps into his mouth.

“Fuck your housemates.”

He grabs Harry’s arse tightly, grinds their hips together, pulling Harry’s body flush against his. So close he doesn’t know which heart it is he feels hammering against his chest, his own or Harry’s?

Harry hisses in pleasure, pushing back against him. He’s hard, too. He feels this, too.

_Please let him feel this, too_.

He could come just from this, just from Harry’s body against his, fully clothed. He could come in his pants like a fucking teenager. Just from this. Whatever this is.

He latches his mouth onto Harry’s throat, licks, sucks, bites at it.

If he were to die right this instant, if his heart stopped beating – and it could happen, it’s like the fucking thing is fighting to get out – it would be worth it.

All the bad things that ever happened to him, his whole life, they mean nothing anymore. Nothing means anything except Harry’s body, Harry’s moans, Harry’s hands gripping his hair, Harry’s fingernails grazing his scalp.

What saintly thing has Severus ever done to deserve this moment?

“Fuuuuuck…” Harry moans softly, clinging to him, head thrown back, asking for more.

Severus smirks against his neck.

_You like this?_ he wants to ask. _This is just the beginning._

But he knows they’re both too far gone already, that they’ll never make it all the way. They shouldn’t have had so much wine. But then again, who knows if they would have made it up here without it.

But it’s not just the wine. It’s this thing, this fucking thing he can’t name.

It’s not lust. It’s not desire. What is it?

It’s like a forest fire. Ravaging. Uncontrollable.

He slides his hands up Harry’s lower back, slips them under his shirt.

God, Severus wants to touch him so badly his hands shake.

But Harry stops him, grabs hold of his wrists and pushes until the back of Severus’ knees hit the bed.

Severus lets himself fall, bringing Harry down with him.

Their combined weight and sudden drop causes the whole bed-frame to shake, and the headboard smacks against the wall loudly. Harry guffaws against his neck, but next second Severus has grabbed his face in both hands and they’re kissing again, panting into each other’s mouths.

They’ve been at it for barely five minutes, and already Severus has memorised Harry’s mouth, mapped it out with his tongue. He wants to know every detail of Harry’s body.

Every hair, every mole, every delicate spot that makes him arch when touched, moan when kissed. He wants to commit all of this to memory.

Because it feels too good to be true. It’s like a dream threatening to end. Any second now and he’ll wake up alone in his cold bed in the dark.

He needs to touch Harry’s skin, so badly, so desperately. He slides his hands under Harry’s shirt again, but Harry pushes them away gently, moving them lower. Severus follows his lead, slips his hands inside Harry’s pants and grabs the soft globes of his arse.

Harry gasps, grinding his hips down against Severus’ cock.

Severus moans in appreciation, but a red light has ignited in his mind.

Through the pleasure, through the overwhelming experience, through the unlikely bliss of it all, he’s noticed. He’s picked up on it.

Something’s not right.

Still kissing Harry like his life depends on it – it feels like it does, and it just might – he tries again, wants to test his hypothesis. Once more, gently this time, he slips his hands under Harry’s shirt, tentatively.

The slight flinch and the shaky breath against his mouth do not go unnoticed, nor does the way Harry shifts back, out of reach, to straddle his knees and pry open Severus’ trousers swiftly.

Three times Harry has pushed him away, has refused to be touched.

It’s subtle, and in the midst of pleasure, someone else would fail to notice, mistake it for playfulness, but not Severus.

Severus is attuned, and not nearly drunk enough not to notice.

Once is playful, maybe. But three times is not.

_Don’t push your luck, Severus. Don’t force his hand. Don’t fuck things up._

_Just take this. Just take this and remember it and be glad._

Severus sucks in a breath, hisses in pleasure as Harry wraps his lips around the head of his cock, sucking gently.

“Fuck… you’re so big,” Harry mutters before taking him whole into his mouth.

He almost comes right then, when his cock hits the back of Harry’s throat, but part of him recoils. Part of him is terrified that Harry’s using this as a diversion, that he’s so scared to be found out, so scared to show that he’s afraid that he’s resorted to keep Severus’ mind otherwise occupied.

It takes all he has, but Severus slips his fingers into Harry’s soft curls and pulls his head away gently.

“Come here…”

Harry hesitates. Barely a fraction of a second, but Severus notices. Then he lets himself be pulled up until he’s lying on his back on the bed, and Severus kisses him again, softly, gently. And when he pulls away, Harry looks at him with those wide, gorgeous eyes, lips deliciously swollen.

_Fuck, he’s so young… Thread carefully, Severus._

“Yes?” he asks, fingers on the fly of Harry’s jeans, waiting for permission.

Harry nods, biting his lip, and he raises his hips from the bed as Severus removes his jeans. They’re so tight he pulls and pulls to get them off, and they both stifle laughter at the ridiculousness of it when Harry’s boxers just slide right off along with them.

Harry watches raptly as Severus removes his jumper, then his own trousers and pants. And he reaches out, grabbing onto Severus’ shoulders as their bodies line up, cocks grinding, skin touching. Finally.

Legs are okay. Severus caresses Harry’s thighs, soft like velvet, and Harry lets him. Neck is okay. He kisses and nips at it again. Cock is definitely okay, because Harry gasps in encouragement when Severus thumbs the head of it. But he doesn’t try to take Harry’s shirt off, or to touch him anywhere else.

This is enough. He feels he’s holding on to something infinitely fragile. And he’ll be damned if he breaks it.

“Yes?” Severus rasps into his ear.

“Yes,” Harry whispers, head thrown back against the pillows, gripping Severus’ forearms as their bodies move together.

The fucking bed is creaking like an earthquake, and the rest of the house is so silent Severus is sure they can be heard all the way across the street. He stops his thrusts, lets silence fall on the bedroom, and straddles Harry’s thin hips instead, grabbing both their cocks in hand.

“Fuck!” Harry gasps, bucking into him. “Yessss…”

Severus shudders. He’s almost there, right on the edge.

He’s thought of this, he’s imagined this. It’s so much better than anything he could have come up with.

But there’s this look on Harry’s face he can’t stop noticing. The boy is frowning, eyes shut tightly, biting on his lip to keep quiet. His body’s taunt, not just with pleasure but with something else.

He’s on guard. He’s hiding. He wants this, but he’s holding back. He’s not letting go.

Severus wants so badly to see him let go, completely.

Where’s the confident, beaming, witty Harry gone to now?

He gazes into Harry’s face, pushes his hair away, kisses his neck the way he likes.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

Harry does, eyes darkened in pleasure, pupils blown wide in the dim light.

“It’s okay,” Severus mutters.

_I understand,_ is what he means. _I’ve noticed. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe with me._

Harry stares right at him as he comes, and it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Like a supernova. Like the creation of the universe.

It’s enough to push Severus right over the edge, and he lets himself fall. He falls hard and deep, and deeper still. And he doesn’t care if he never gets up again.

He gathers Harry’s body in his arms afterwards, still shaking from the aftershock.

The thing in his chest is shaking, too. This thing he still can’t find the words to describe.

He wants to speak, wants to ask, but what should he say? What is there to say?

What was all that about? Why was the boy scared? What has Severus done wrong?

_Don’t you dare say anything! Don’t you dare ruin this!_

He doesn’t say anything, he just holds Harry instead.

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispers some time later, when they’re tangled under the sheets in the dark.

The words are low, barely even spoken aloud, and it’s only because Harry’s mouth is barely an inch from his head on the pillow that Severus hears them.

“It’s okay,” Severus tells him softly.

_Who are you?_ he wants to ask. _Tell me everything._

_What are you afraid of? What happened to you to make you want to run away, to make you dream of planes exploding?_

_Who hurt you? What have they done to you that you won’t let me touch you now? Let me. Let me show you. I would never hurt you. I’d rather die than hurt you._

_You feel this, too, don’t you? I don’t know what it is, but it’s real. I think it’s the only real thing in this world._

_You’re the only real thing in this world, and all the rest is just something I’ve imagined._

“Sleep,” he says instead.

 

* * *

 

He’s exhausted. He must be. He’s barely slept last night, has been up all day, and now it’s four in the morning and he’s lying wide awake. Tiredness refuses to come. His mind is alight, electrified.

Harry’s so silent in sleep he could have died, and Severus would never know. The soft, steady breath against his neck is his only reassurance. It tickles, but Severus doesn’t move away.

The bedroom is freezing, the window cracked open. And still he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t want to wake Harry or stop looking at him.

It didn’t take long for Severus to realise he’s feeling guilty. And confused. More than anything, he’s confused. He doesn’t understand exactly what happened earlier.

Or maybe he does but just doesn’t want to admit it.

He should have stopped. He should have stopped when he first noticed Harry was reticent about the whole thing, when Harry first pushed his hands away. Only, it wasn’t reticence, was it? It was caution. He was afraid to lose control, that much was obvious.

Was he afraid Severus would hurt him?

_He makes himself look reckless and nonchalant,_ Lupin said. _He may look all light-hearted and big-eyed and invulnerable, but there are dark things in him._

_Things you won’t like…_

A car alarm goes off in the street, siren wailing into the night, and Severus startles. Harry doesn’t budge, just sleeps on through the noise.

Severus waits it out, but it doesn’t stop.

Slowly, he moves Harry’s arm from across his chest, pushes the boy’s head gently onto the pillow, and gets out of bed. The draft from the window whips his naked body full force and he searches the floor for his underwear and jumper, which he pulls on in a hurry before tip-toeing up to the window and pulling it gently shut.

“Are you leaving?” Harry slurs from the bed.

Severus turns. The boy hasn’t moved but his eyes are open. Under the dim lights from the street, he can see Harry squinting at him in the darkness.

“I was just shutting the window.”

“Why?”

The car alarm has stopped.

“Because it’s freezing.”

“Come back to bed then.”

Severus does, and Harry wraps himself around him again, pressing his face into the fabric of his jumper. Severus gently cards his fingers in soft hair.

_What’s going on in your head?_

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay. I was having a bad dream,” Harry whispers.

“Oh. I couldn’t tell. You sleep like the dead.”

_Was it because of me, of what we did?_ he wants to ask. _Did it remind you of something? Did it bring back memories?_

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Can you read to me?” Harry asks softly, ignoring the question.

“Um… sure. What would you like?”

“Anything. Doesn’t matter.”

It’s 4:15 in the morning. Severus reaches over to turn on the lamp, then grabs a book at random from the collapsed pile near the dresser and brings it into the light.

It’s Duffy’s _Rapture_.

“I like the first poem,” Harry tells him with a soft smile.

Severus represses a groan.

_He likes the damn poem. Just read the damn poem._

He opens the book, finds the first page. The title is, quite simply, “You.”

_Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,_  
_so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,_  
_like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables_  
_like a charm, like a spell._

_Falling in love_  
_is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart_  
_like a tiger ready to kill; a flame’s fierce licks under the skin._  
_Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in._

_I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,_  
_in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,_  
_staring back from anyone’s face, from the shape of a cloud,_  
_from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me_

_as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are_  
_on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream._

“… _like a touchable dream_ ,” Harry finishes along with him, barely a whisper.

_Fuck_ , Severus thinks miserably. _This fucking book…_

He drops it on the bedside table, plunges his fingers into Harry’s hair again.

_Like a touchable dream…_

He’s staring around the room absent-mindedly when he spots it, propped between the bookshelf and the wall.

“Is that a violin in the corner?”

Harry is silent for a few seconds. “Yeah.”

“Do you play?”

Another hesitation. “I haven’t in a while.”

“Play something for me?”

Harry raises his head from Severus’ chest, frowning. “Now?”

Severus shrugs. “Why not?”

Harry’s sitting up now. “It’s four in the morning, I don’t think my housemates–”

“Fuck your housemates,” Severus says, grinning now.

And then, just like that, Harry is grinning back at him in a mix of amusement and disbelief. Severus’ heart trembles in delight.

Here he is, right here, the Harry he thought was gone.

“They’ll bloody murder me,” he whispers, shaking his head, but he’s already getting out of bed.

He searches for his boxers on the floor, slips them on, grabs his glasses from the desk, and crouches in the corner.

Severus sits up in anticipation, watching as Harry opens the case and takes the violin out slowly, fingertips almost caressing it in the process.

“I’ll have to tune it a bit,” he tells Severus, who shrugs lazily.

“Take your time.”

He tries to be silent about it as he plays each string, one after the other, softly, listening and adjusting and adjusting again. Severus doesn’t know much about violinists, but he imagines doing this without some sort of tool or reference must require a good amount of skill.

“Well, good enough,” Harry says finally, after a few minutes.

He straightens up and throws an exaggeratedly annoyed look at Severus, who only grins back.

“Any requests?”

“Whatever you want.”

Harry thinks for a second, then he raises the bow and starts playing.

Whatever Severus was expecting, it wasn’t this.

Harry launches straight into a Paganini Caprice. It’s beautiful, intricate, and bloody hell is it loud!

It’s exquisite. Harry is fucking exquisite.

_I haven’t played in a while_ , he said.

Another white lie, surely. But Severus doesn’t mind. He can’t mind.

Harry plays with such ease it hardly looks difficult at all. He plays the way someone else would accomplish the simplest everyday task, like writing a memo, pouring a cup of tea, leafing through a book. Like anyone could do it. Like it’s no big deal. Like it’s second nature. Easy as breathing.

Just bloody exquisite.

He’s barely been playing for thirty seconds when a loud thud resounds through the house, or a series of them. And then a shout, quite nearby.

Harry stops abruptly.

“Are you serious?” comes an angry voice from the next room, followed by some fumbling and furious hammering against the locked bathroom door. “Are you bloody fucking serious?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’ll stop!” Harry calls out urgently, but he’s laughing. “Don’t break the door! I’ll stop! I’m sorry!”

The hammering stops. There’s a pause, and then Ron’s voice comes out in a grumpy warning. “You better be sorry, you little shit!”

They hear him walk away and slam shut his bedroom door.

Harry puts his violin down and presses his face into his hands, laughing quietly.

Severus smirks and lunges at him, grabbing him by the waist to pull him back into bed.

“You’re brilliant,” he whispers into Harry’s neck. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

He mouths a wet trail along the boy’s throat until he reaches his lips and kisses him softly.

God, every time is like the first time. Every kiss ignites him like the first touch.

Warmth pools in his chest as Harry’s eyes flutter shut and he kisses back, biting at Severus’ lips playfully.

As they wrap their arms around each other and settle comfortably again, ready for sleep, relief floods Severus.

It’s okay. Harry doesn’t hate him. Harry doesn’t look scared anymore.

He looks luminous. He’s perfect.

Severus must fall asleep at some point, because when he opens his eyes again it’s morning. Harry’s bedroom is filled with daylight and he’s alone in bed, no warm body wrapped around his.

The alarm clock on the bedside table tells him it’s 9:45. There’s a yellow post-it note stuck to it.

_Had to go to work but didn’t_  
_want to wake you._  
_Make yourself at home._

There’s a phone number right underneath. Followed by two words:

_Text me._

Severus slips out of bed slowly, looking around the room for the first time in the light of day, examining the pictures on the wall. Pictures of friends, school, parties. Young teenage faces peer at him from the frames.

God, Harry’s so fucking young. Does wanting him make Severus an old pervert?

The house is completely silent now. Everyone must be off to school. It’s quite a relief, too. What would Harry’s housemates say if he met them on the landing?

Oh God, what if there’s someone home right now? What was he thinking, staying the night? And yet he can’t bring himself to regret it.

Harry’s put the violin case away, tucked next to the wall again, and Severus looks at it for a while, battling the urge to open it and look inside. There’s a layer of dust on the case, with finger marks where it’s been touched.

Maybe Harry was telling the truth after all, when he said he hadn’t played in a while.

Severus cracks the bathroom door open silently, tentatively. It’s warm in there, the air humid, and it still smells of soap, like someone’s recently showered.

There he goes. Just the thought of Harry soaping up and Severus is half-hard already. What the fuck is happening to him?

Who’s the nineteen-year-old in this?

The door leading into Ron’s bedroom is ajar, but the room is empty. Severus peeks inside, glimpsing at tangled bedsheets, clothes thrown haphazardly around the room, a West Ham poster on the wall. He shuts the door quietly.

After finding a towel in the cupboard, Severus turns on the shower, strips and steps under the hot spray. He doesn’t know which soap is Harry’s, so he just picks one at random and cleans the dried come from his stomach. Then, because he can’t help himself, he takes himself in hand and wanks off slowly, thinking of Harry’s mouth on his cock, Harry’s quiet whimpers, Harry’s beautiful laugh.

How did he live so long without this?

He snoops around the bathroom a little after that but regrets it almost immediately when he finds a prescription bottle of Xanax with Harry’s name on it in the medicine cabinet.

Not that he’s surprised, exactly. Harry did mention he had a therapist, and therapists prescribe these drugs quite often. It seems everyone suffers from depression or anxiety nowadays.

It’s not surprise, but a sort of fear, maybe. A sort of painful realisation.

Everyone suffers from something, yes, but still Severus can’t stop himself wondering what a nineteen-year-old would need to take Xanax for.

_He’s a sad kid,_ Lupin said.

Sad? What kind of sad?

_Jesus Christ, Severus! You’ve seen how he was last night. What more do you need? Something bad’s obviously happened to him. Does it need to be spelled out for you?_

He makes his way downstairs quietly, seeing no one, hearing nothing. He’s reached the ground floor, has found his phone in his coat pocket and is putting in Harry’s number when he notices someone watching him from the shadows of the hallway.

“You hungry?” Ron asks.

He’s not the goofy teenager from last night anymore. He fixes Severus with a serious, almost severe expression.

“Yes… I suppose I am,” Severus says, quite uncomfortable.

Ron shrugs, gesturing for him to come down into the kitchen. “Harry made you eggs. They’re probably cold by now.”

“Well… thank you, but I should probably–”

“Just come and eat the bloody eggs,” Ron says in annoyance. “Harry made me promise to be nice to you, so I’m being nice to you. Come on.”

Reluctantly, Severus follows him down into the kitchen, feeling like he’s about to be scolded by a disappointed parent.

“So… no school today?” he asks just to break the silence.

“Big exam this afternoon,” Ron says shortly. “They gave us the morning off to study.”

He points to a plate of scrambled eggs on the counter before sitting down at the table, where he’s obviously been studying. A plate of eggs and bacon sits half-eaten next to a carton of orange juice and a huge textbook about law enforcement.

“Better put that in the microwave,” Ron tells him before biting into a piece of bacon.

Severus does as suggested. Scornfully, he thinks that this kid will be a great cop. Barely twenty years old and already intimidating as fuck.

“Sit down,” he tells Severus afterwards, pointing to the chair across from his, the very one in which Severus sat last night during dinner.

Once again, Severus obeys. He picks up a fork and eats the eggs slowly, looking around the kitchen to avoid looking at Ron.

Someone’s added something to the list of rules on the wall.

_No violin in the middle of the night._

Severus smirks.

“You know, he hadn’t touched that violin in four years until last night,” Ron says, following his gaze.

Four years? That doesn’t make any sense. Ron must be mistaken.

Harry certainly didn’t play like someone who’d stopped for four years.

“Oh. I thought maybe he was lying about that.”

“Yeah? Well, he wasn’t,” Ron says coldly.

“Fine. I’m sorry.”

There is silence for a long moment. Ron is looking at his book, scanning the page, but Severus can’t tell he’s not reading a word. His mouth is set in a straight line, eyebrows frowned.

“If you have something to say to me, why don’t you just say it?” Severus asks him after a while, annoyed.

Ron scoffs humourlessly, then shrugs. “Alright. You seem like a reasonable man, so you have to understand my concerns here.”

“I think I do.”

“You’re how old exactly?”

“I just turned forty.”

Ron doesn’t reply, only shakes his head, and Severus gets the distinct feeling that something like this has happened before. Ron isn’t shaking his head at him, but at the situation. He’s shaking his head at Harry, not at Severus. Like Harry should know better.

“Look… Severus… My girlfriend, she adores you, loves your work. She says someone who writes like you do can’t be a bad person. And I’m not saying you are, but the thing is… Harry… he gets...”

“Attached?” Severus supplies.

He tries not to sound bitter, but it’s a hard thing. This is Lupin’s speech all over again, and he’s not sure he’s up to hearing it again.

What would Harry think if he knew about this?

“Attached, yes. A bit too easily,” the redhead continues dryly. Then he says nothing for a long moment, rubbing at his face tiredly. “He’s my best mate, okay? And he doesn’t have anyone to take care of him. He thinks he can handle himself, but he’s rubbish at it, really.”

“And you think that’s your job.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s my fucking job,” Ron snaps at him.

“Of course. I understand.”

Ron shakes his head again, like no, Severus can’t possibly understand.

“Is this just a one off for you?” he asks angrily. “Did you see this nineteen-year-old kid and thought you’d get your rocks off and then be done with him? Do you even want to see him again? Because last night, for whatever reason, he picked up his violin, which he put down four years ago and wouldn’t touch again, no matter what we said to convince him, no matter how miserable it made him. And he’d been down in the dumps for weeks, and suddenly this morning he was on cloud fucking nine and he absolutely wanted to make you eggs…”

He trails off, looking furious but mainly tired. And he waits for whatever Severus has to say.

Severus finishes the last few bites of his breakfast before he speaks.

“No, this isn’t just a one off for me,” he tells Ron. “And yes, I want to see him again. I really, honestly do. Harry is unlike anyone I’ve ever met or thought I would ever meet. The last thing I want is to hurt him.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t hurt him anyway,” Ron says reproachfully.

“No, it doesn’t,” Severus concedes. “I can understand that you’re worried about your friend, and I think he’s lucky to have you, but this is between Harry and me. Also… I might not know him that well yet, but I think he’d be furious if he knew we were having this conversation right now.”

Ron snorts. “Yeah, he’d probably have a fit.”

“Let’s cut this short then, shall we? I’m not the kind of man who takes lovers left and right. My last relationship has lasted fifteen years. It might not have been perfect, in fact it was far from it, and it didn’t end well. But when I met Harry, I felt like… maybe he could help me. I’m no idiot. I know that he’s been hurt in the past. And I’m hoping that I might help him, too. I’m hoping. If he lets me, that is.”

Ron stares at him for a long moment, piercingly.

“All right,” he says finally. “I’ll back off… but you can be bloody sure that if you ever–”

“Yes, yes, you’ll castrate me and whatnot.”

“Damn right, I will.”

Glad to be done with this, Severus stands and heads over to the sink to wash his plate.

“You can leave that,” Ron grumbles. “I’ll clean it up. You should go home and get some sleep, old man. You look like shit warmed over.”

Severus decides to follow his advice and takes the tube home.

It’s so strange stepping into his flat now, like he’s not the same person anymore. This place used to bring him comfort, now it just seems empty. Maybe it’s the contrast with Harry’s house, so full of character and people and… well, so full of Harry.

In comparison, Severus’ flat is a blank canvas, and he’s too tired to paint anything on it, to give it a personality.

He lies down on the sofa to take a nap, but it’s hopeless. Sleep still eludes him.

He’s just dying to text Harry.

Should he wait? He should wait. Harry’s at work right now, he’s probably too busy to text.

Severus takes out his phone nonetheless, opens a new message and types something.

_Thank you for breakfast._

He sends it. He can’t help himself. It’s only polite, isn’t it? Then he adds, quickly:

_It’s Severus._

The reply comes a few minutes later.

_I figured ;-)_  
_You’re welcome_

Severus starts grinning like an idiot the moment he reads the words.

_I have to see you again._  
_Tonight?_

He waits for a reply.

_Please, please, please. Be free tonight. Please._

He waits. Two minutes later, he sees that Harry’s read the message and is typing the answer.

_I get off at 6_  
_Meet me at work?_

He’s about to ask for directions when the answer comes.

_Flourish & Blotts_  
_on Charing Cross Road_

_I’ll be there._

_Great!_  
_Got to put my phone away now_  
_or I’ll get in trouble_  
_See you then!_  
_:-)_

It’s the longest afternoon in the history of afternoons. It’s almost as if time starts running backwards, just to spite him.

He changes, spends forever deciding what to wear, and ends up with slacks and a grey button-down shirt.

Then he waits.

Then he decides to go early. It’s a bookshop, anyway. He can just browse while Harry finishes his shift.

It’s funny. When Harry mentioned he worked in a bookshop, Severus automatically pictured him in a small, dusty, cramped little shop on an old narrow alley. Certainly not at _Flourish & Blotts_.

It’s a massive, three-storey shop that takes up a whole block in front of a busy intersection. The ground floor, for the most part, is dedicated to bestsellers and recommended readings, with a large stationary section near the registers. Severus heads towards one of the cashiers.

“Do you know where I can find Harry?”

The girl blinks at him and Severus represses a smirk. Bookshops are pretty much the only place where anyone ever recognises him. It always feels sort of flattering, really.

It’s the other cashier who ends up answering his question. “Try upstairs, in General Fiction,” she says politely.

“Thank you.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he hears the second girl hiss as he walks away.

“That’s Severus Prince! Didn’t you recognise him?”

He doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already climbing up the large, spiral staircase that leads to the upper floors. General Fiction is in a corner of the top floor, a cluster of tall, wooden bookshelves in alphabetical order.

Severus hears Harry’s voice before he sees him.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Can I recommend another one?”

“Oh, yes. Please do.”

He peeks around a shelf. And there Harry is.

Every time Severus sees him, his heart skips a beat. It’s pathetically cliché.

He’s dressed all in black, like the other employees. In a pair of chinos and an adjusted button-down, but he’s wearing black trainers that have seen much better days. There’s a golden tag pinned to his shirt, with his name on it. He’s not wearing his glasses today, and his hair, as usual, is adorably tousled.

He’s talking to an elderly man, possibly in his mid-seventies, elegant and looking quite wealthy, who’s practically drinking in his words.

“I’m sure you’ll like it. The style is very similar, and you’ll find some of the same themes as well. I just love the protagonist in this one…”

Severus follows them from a distance, casually pretending to look at the books, but really looking at Harry as he leads the customer through the rows. Severus almost snorts with laughter when he catches the old man looking at Harry’s bum while his back is turned.

“Oh, thank you very much, Harry. I look forward to reading this one.”

“It’s really no problem, sir,” Harry says politely, handing him the book.

“Please, I told you to call me Isaac. See you next week.”

Severus waits until the man is quite a distance away before coming out of his hiding place.

“That man wants to fuck you,” he tells Harry softly, coming up close and whispering the words into his ear.

Harry startles, turning swiftly and blushing once he catches sight of Severus. Then, just like Severus knew he would, he runs a hand through his hair and laughs quietly.

“He’s like seventy years old, he doesn’t want to fuck anyone,” the boy says, shaking his head.

Severus smirks. “I think he’d make an exception for you.”

“Stop it!” Harry hisses, but he’s smiling. “He comes in every week. Now I won’t be able to look him in the eye.”

He presses a hand to Severus’ chest to push him away playfully, but Severus grabs his wrist gently, pulling him closer instead.

Fuck, he can’t even contain himself around this boy.

Looking around and seeing no one, he presses Harry against the side of a shelf, away from prying eyes.

“Will I get you in trouble if I kiss you right here?”

Harry takes a shaky breath as Severus caresses the length of his throat softly. “Definitely,” he whispers, grabbing Severus’ belt to pull him closer. “My boss hates me. He’d just love an excuse to sack me.”

Severus runs a hand through the boy’s hair, grazing an ear with his fingers, watching raptly as Harry shivers.

“How soon can you leave?”

“I told you six o’clock. You’re the one who got here early.”

“I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

Harry smiles this breathtaking smile again and Severus knows he needs to back away now or he’ll get them both in trouble.

“We get a new shipment tonight and I have to rearrange this entire section,” Harry tells him, pointing to a few rows of shelves. “You can sit in that area there and read something while you wait.”

Severus pretends to pout, grabs a book at random from a shelf and heads to the small area Harry showed him, which has a few armchairs and little tables. He takes a seat, making sure he can watch Harry work from his spot, then he pretends to read.

When six o’clock finally, finally comes around, Harry smirks at him and disappears into a backroom somewhere for a few minutes. By the time he returns, wearing his lovely coat, a messenger bag dangling from his shoulder, Severus is pacing impatiently.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as they climb down the stairs together. “Want to go to dinner somewhere?”

“Not really, no,” Harry says with a smirk and a sidelong glance.

_Fuck_ , Severus thinks miserably. These goddamn eyes will be the death of him.

“My place, then?” he asks under his breath.

“Yup.”

It’s all they can do not to run out of the shop. Severus could take his hand, could snog him on the sidewalk if he wanted to. People would see, but what could they do? It’s none of their business. It’s not forbidden, only frowned upon. But he doesn’t. Who’s to say Harry would be okay with it?

They take the tube, and it’s the slowest ride in the history of tube rides. They’re stuck in rush hour and forced to squeeze in a corner of the carriage, in very, very close proximity. On top of everything, Harry is being a provocative little bastard, grazing Severus’ crotch accidentally on purpose every chance he has.

“You’ll bloody regret this,” Severus hisses into his ear, weakly, barely audible, as the train jerks to a halt and Harry stumbles into him again. But he softly grazes his hand against Harry’s and grasps it.

Harry squeezes his fingers as if in apology, but as soon as the train departs, his body is pressed against Severus’ again, even closer than before.

His flat is not far from the station, and they can only make it as far as the lift before his mouth is on Harry’s and he’s got the boy pressed against the wall, arching into him.

How could he go a whole day without this? How did the wait not drive him mad?

His whole body feels like a live wire, sparking every time Harry touches him.

They can’t do much more than kiss, however, in the twenty or so seconds it takes the lift to reach the top floor, and they drift apart the second the doors open, lest they get caught by one of Severus’ upright, upper middle-class neighbours.

It occurs to him, as Severus unlocks the door, that Harry is the first person to set foot inside his flat since he’s moved in. There’s something exciting about it, something almost symbolic. He wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.

“Woah, this is nice,” Harry says, looking around at the high ceilings and large windows. “Bloody hell, how can you afford this place?”

“Says the one who lives in a centennial house in the middle of London,” Severus says, taking Harry’s coat off him.

Harry glares at him playfully. “That’s not the same, I didn’t pay for it.”

“Well…” Severus shrugs, putting both their coats away. “I’m famous, don’t you remember?”

“Hardly,” Harry snorts, sending him a teasing look. “Can I look through your records?”

“Look through whatever you want.”

Severus just watches him for a while as he walks into the living-room and up to the high wall of shelves, browsing. He never thought he’d have somebody in his home again, somebody he cares so much about. He’s been so bloody lonely for so long he didn’t even remember what it felt like not being alone.

How could this boy he’s only just met, this boy he barely even knows, mean so much to him already?

“Oh, I love this one,” Harry says, gently pulling a record from the shelf. “I have it on my phone.”

Severus approaches him to have a look. “Which one? Oh, I haven’t listened to it yet. The estate agency, they just put whatever they wanted in here,” he explains.

Harry’s already pulling the first disk out of the sleeve and walking over to the record player. “But you know the Four Seasons, right? Vivaldi?”

“Everyone knows the Four Seasons.”

“Maybe, but this is different. It’s been recomposed and modernised. Listen,” he says, lowering the needle.

Like the original, it starts with _Spring_ , but it’s different already. Light, joyous violin notes fill the air, familiar notes, like the dawn of a clear morning. Then, unexpectedly, a second melody joins in, lost in the background, sad and reminiscent. Melancholy among the lightness.

It’s beautiful.

It makes Severus’ heart heavy, but he smiles.

Harry reaches out then, touching the side of his face, caressing his cheek softly.

Severus leans into it. How long since he’s been touched like this? It’s so fucking good it hurts.

“You really should smile more,” Harry says, tracing the corner of Severus’ lips.

Severus takes the boy’s hand in his and kisses the palm of it. His heart is heavy and light at the same time. He wants to cry and laugh at the same time.

The thing in his chest is fluttering wildly.

“I’ve been doing it more often lately,” he says, throat dry.

Harry smiles before looking away, embarrassed, but Severus cups his face and kisses him gently.

It’s not like before, in the lift. It’s not like last night, when they were half drunk and desperate for each other’s mouths.

The thing in his chest is threatening to get loose again, but he keeps it in. He doesn’t know what it’ll do if it escapes. What if it scares Harry away?

He tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, soft as silk. He could spend the rest of his life like this. He could live like this, just breathing the air from Harry’s lungs. He really could.

Kissing Harry is unlike anything he’s ever known. It’s a full body experience that starts at the lips and spreads everywhere else. If it lasted long enough, he could come just from this. Definitely.

What’s happening to him? It’s like Severus doesn’t know his own body anymore. Like he was in a coma and he’s just now suddenly emerged from it. Like his body is finally awake after decades of drug-induced sleep.

“Why did you stop playing violin?” Severus asks when they drift apart slowly.

The music’s changed, and it’s the violin’s lament that prompts the question out of him.

“Ron told me you hadn’t played in years,” he adds.

Harry shrugs, pressing closer to him, forehead against Severus’ chest. “It’s complicated,” he says softly. “A lot of bad things happened, and I just felt like I couldn’t do it anymore. My friends don’t understand.”

Severus buries his nose into Harry’s hair, taking a deep breath.

“I understand. I haven’t written a single word in two years.”

“Really?”

“I try. Almost every day, but… nothing. It’s like I’ve just… Maybe I just have nothing to say anymore.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Harry kisses him again, tongue pushing into his mouth softly, caressing, as if to soothe his thoughts.

By the time it’s Summer, they’ve moved onto the sofa, Harry straddling him, and Severus has thoroughly ravaged his mouth and throat. He hasn’t snogged anyone like this since he was a teenager.

If _Spring_ was beautiful, _Summer_ is beyond words, and Severus would be lying if he said the music doesn’t play a part in all this.

Harry’s mouth, Harry’s hands, Harry’s skin, and the violin that builds up and builds up and just doesn’t stop building up.

“I love this part,” Harry gasps against his skin, and Severus isn’t sure whether he’s talking about the music or the fact that Harry’s now undoing trousers and wrapping a hand around his cock.

And that’s when it happens. That’s when Severus forgets.

He’s been hanging on to it, in the back of his mind, to make sure he doesn’t ruin things. But Harry’s hands are stroking him, and he’s already on the cusp of coming, and he’s not thinking straight. And he just wants to touch Harry, to feel him, to feel everything.

To be completely honest, it’s not exactly that he forgets. It’s that he thinks things are different now, that they’ve reached a higher level of intimacy and that maybe it’s okay now.

He doesn’t even pay attention, barely realises he’s doing it. Unconsciously, Severus untucks Harry’s shirt from his trousers and slips his hands inside, moving to caress his back.

And then Harry flinches, grabbing his wrists, pushing his hands away.

The lead violin’s melody changes, starting a long and beautiful complaint, a melody that sounds foreign and familiar at the same time, and it rips through Severus' soul like a knife, red hot, because at the same moment, Harry leans into him, stroking his cock almost roughly, and he whispers, his voice raw and heavy. “You have to fuck me.”

Severus moans, head hazy, senses in overdrive. “I can’t… I can’t.”

“Why not?”

_Because it’s happening again. God, it’s happening again._

“I… You’re not…”

“I’m not a virgin, just so you know,” Harry rasps, squeezing Severus’ cock tighter. “Far from it.”

“Oh God,” Severus moans, and if it sounds pained it’s because he can see the change happening in Harry before his very eyes.

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” Harry moans back, but it sounds so false Severus feels as though he’s been stabbed through the chest. “Come on… You said you’d make me regret it, on the train. That’s what you meant, isn’t it? You want to fuck me like this? You want me to beg? I can ride you. I like it hard and fast.”

What’s happening? This, right here, this boy staring at him darkly, that’s not Harry.

That’s not the boy who gasped and whimpered in pleasure underneath him last night. That’s not the one who was blushing in embarrassment only minutes earlier.

Who is this?

Severus grabs his wrist, pushing his hand away. “Why are you doing this?” he asks gently.

Harry almost sneers at him. “Doing what?”

But there it is. Underneath the confident tone, the provocation, Severus can see it clear as day. An underlying of fear.

“Why are you afraid of me? And why are you trying to hide it?”

Harry attempts to look confused. “What are you talking about?”

Severus does it again, slowly, to prove his point. He slips his hands inside Harry’s shirt, but just as soon Harry’s stopping him, holding onto his wrists tightly.

“Stop,” he boy hisses, an edge of panic to his voice.

“This is what I’m talking about. Why won’t you let me touch you? Why won’t you let me see you?”

Harry snorts, but it sounds almost like a sob. “You’re seeing me now.”

“You know what I mean. All of you. I don’t understand. Did I do something–”

Fucking hell! Now he wants to smack himself because Harry’s eyes are starting to fill with tears and he’s pulling away.

Severus grabs his arm, trying to pull him back. “Did someone hurt you?” he demands. “I’ll fucking find them, I swear. I’ll–”

“It’s not that,” Harry protests, voice coming out in a whimper because he’s crying openly now, lips trembling.

“What is it then?” Severus asks, trying to keep his voice soft, soothing, but his throat feels like broken glass, painful and raw.

For a moment, Harry only looks at him, large green eyes filled with tears, and he looks so young and so perfect that all Severus wants is to go out on the street and find whoever it is that messed him up and just fucking destroy them. And it looks as if Harry wants to tell him, but then he only shakes his head, pries his arm free and walks away.

“I think I’ll just head home now,” he announces quietly.

Severus stumbles off the sofa, pulling his trousers up as he launches after him. “Don’t go! Please. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have–”

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles, sobbing, avoiding his eyes as he searches for his coat. “I can’t… I’m sorry... I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”

Severus manages to catch him, wrapping his arms around him.

“Stay,” he whispers into the boy’s hair. “I won’t ask again. I’ll never say anything again. Ever again. Forgive me.”

“Please, I just want to go home,” Harry mumbles.

He’s not quite sobbing anymore, but his body’s shaking like a leaf. He’s terrified.

Severus pulls away, wipes the tears from Harry’s face gently.

“Okay,” he says softly, the lump in his throat the size of a fucking planet. “Just… let me call you a cab at least.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine,” Harry says, still avoiding his eyes.

He helps the boy put on his coat, then watches, powerless, as Harry slips on his shoes.

“Forgive me,” he blurts out again, dying to catch Harry’s hand, to beg him to stay.

“It’s not… It’s not you,” Harry says softly.

And then he’s out the door. And then he’s gone.

The music stops as the door shuts.

Severus stands there for a long time after he’s left, shirt undone, trousers undone, half hanging out of his pants. He would laugh at the situation if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.

_For God’s sake, Severus. Why do you have to break everything you touch?_

He heads into the bathroom, turns on the shower, strips and steps inside. The water is scorching. It hurts, and he lets it.

_You couldn’t just let it go, could you? You had to push and push._

He should have insisted and called Harry a cab. How could he let him go like that, tearful and trembling and afraid?

As he stands under the spray of burning water, he wonders what sort of body of water Harry would be.

Then Severus thinks about the Aral Sea. Once it was one of the largest lakes in the world, but irrigation has diverted all the rivers that fed it. Now it’s reduced to 10% of its original size. It stands almost barren, a desert of sand and salt with skeletons of ships scattered through it.

He leaves the shower on, walking straight out, then out of the bathroom and he crosses the flat, dripping wet, trailing water everywhere. He walks over to the desk, grabs a pen, opens the journal to the first page, leaving droplets all over.

And then he writes.

_You are a desert that once was an ocean,_  
_centuries ago._

_You once swarmed with life._  
_Now you are shipwrecks crumbled under the sun,_  
_a graveyard for creatures unimagined._

_Fossils are carved upon your ribs,_  
_I brush at them softly._  
_Through your chest I hear the ghostly roar of the waves._  
_I hear the whales moaning their desperate calls_  
_as they lay dying on your banks,_  
_scorching, turning to dust._

 

* * *

 

 

Just like that, Severus starts writing again.

He’s at it for most of the night. When he’s thoroughly exhausted and numb with headache, he falls asleep on the sofa. This lasts two hours, maybe three, and then he’s wide awake again, mind buzzing with ideas and hands shaking with the urge to write.

He doesn’t even remember the last time this happened to him. It must have been when he was working on his first book of poetry, decades ago. He was so productive back then, he had notebooks upon notebooks filled with poems, and he had to pick and choose which ones he wanted to publish.

When did it stop being like that? When did he start running dry?

Maybe it’s just life, maybe that’s just what it does. Makes us run dry, eventually.

He writes anything, everything. Words that were already there, that have been in him all this time but that he’d never managed to get out before. And new ones that he plucks out of the air easily, so easily. He’d forgotten how fucking amazing this feels. And it’s so very easy, it’s like he’s never even stopped.

It’s unclear exactly when it stops being poetry and starts becoming something else. Poems turn into fragments of a story, then of another, with or without continuity. People take shape. Characters. And the next thing he knows, Severus realises he’s working on something that strangely resembles a novel.

He writes, he takes naps, then he writes again.

When he looks up at the time, it’s seven in the evening, and a whole night and day have passed since Harry’s left.

How could he let all this time go by? He has to call and see if Harry’s okay.

He picks up his phone and sees that Harry’s texted him. Six bloody hours ago.

_I’m sorry_  
_About last night_

Six hours ago! How did Severus not hear his phone? Is the bloody thing broken?

Harry must think he’s mad at him. He types in a hurry, as if the speed will make up for the wait.

_It’s okay._

Harry’s answer is almost immediate, and Severus feels terrible about it. The poor boy must have been staring at his phone for hours.

_Are you busy?_

It occurs to Severus that he’s the busiest he’s ever been since returning to London.

_No._

Harry types and types, and Severus imagines he’s trying to explain, expects a long message, but all he gets, after about a minute is:

_Can I come by?_

_Please do._

_Did you have dinner?_

_No, not yet._

_I’ll bring something then_  
_Thai food ok?_

_That sounds perfect._

_See you soon_

Severus showers in a hurry. He’s sweaty and gross from a whole day of furiously scribbling away and pacing manically around the flat. Then he cleans up his mess of orange peels and pear cores and pistachio shells and dried up tea bags all over the desk and kitchen table, and he stacks up the loose sheets thrown haphazardly everywhere.

Harry shows up almost an hour later. He smiles briefly as Severus lets him in but avoids eye contact as he takes off his boots and coat.

He’s so nervous he’s visibly shaking.

Severus takes the bag of takeaway food from him, and then, seeing as Harry is still avoiding his gaze, puts it down on the floor and reaches out.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says, lifting Harry’s chin gently.

There are shadows under the boy’s eyes. Like he hasn’t been sleeping, or like he’s been crying. Possibly both. It’s a terrible thing but it makes him look even more beautiful.

“You weren’t answering my texts,” Harry mumbles, still not quite looking at him.

Severus cradles Harry’s head softly, tangling his fingers in soft hair and the boy shuts his eyes, like he’s holding back tears.

“I’m sorry,” Severus tells him softly. “I was writing. I started again. And I lost track of time. I wanted to call last night, but I thought maybe… maybe you didn’t want to see me anymore. You said–”

Harry shakes his head jerkily. “I know what I said…” he starts before trailing off and taking a deep breath. “I don’t know why I acted that way…”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Severus assures him. “We can just eat and watch a movie. What do you think?”

Harry smiles, a fragile and trembling thing, but a smile nonetheless. “I’d like that.”

Severus turns on the telly to a classic movies channel that he likes, and they settle in front of _Rear Window_ with the Pad Thai Harry’s brought with him.

They eat in silence. When the food is gone, Harry shifts closer, tentatively, and Severus wraps him in his arms, pulling him against his chest. He almost sighs in relief when he feels Harry relax against him.

God, he’ll never stop wanting this. He doesn’t care if they never kiss again. He can live with that, as long as Harry’s here. As long as Harry doesn’t hate him.

“I’d never seen this one before,” Harry says as the movie ends. By that time, he’s lying down with his head in Severus’ lap and Severus was almost certain he’d fallen asleep. “I think it’s my favourite so far.”

“I like _Vertigo_ ,” Severus tells him. “It’s got James Stewart, too.”

“Mmmm, I prefer _Marnie_. Tippi Hedren is a much better actress than Kim Novak.”

They’re babbling, talking about movies to avoid talking about other things, about the things they should be talking about. But Severus doesn’t care. He’ll talk about anything Harry wants to talk about. He won’t mention anything. He won’t ruin things again.

“It’s getting late,” he says softly. “Do you want to watch another one, or would you rather go home? I can call you a cab.”

Harry is silent for a time before shifting to look up at him. “Do you want me to go?”

Severus shakes his head, caressing the boy’s cheek gently. “No, I’d like you to stay. Very much.”

“Will you kiss me?”

Severus sighs, feigning reticence. “If you insist.”

Harry laughs softly. “I do. I insist,” he says teasingly, sitting up.

As soon as Harry’s head is level with his, Severus leans in and presses his mouth to the underside of his jaw, like he knows Harry likes, earning a moan in response, before moving up to Harry’s lovely, lovely mouth. Harry’s lips open against his, no hesitation there.

It's familiar territory already. It’s already like coming home.

Kissing Harry is like swimming in the ocean, losing himself to something infinite and powerful, knowing the risk of drowning is present, but willing to take it all the same.

“Happy now?” Severus asks when they separate, out of breath. He tries to sound playful, but he feels almost delirious.

“Yes,” Harry breathes out against his mouth.

He looks at Severus straight in the eyes then. It’s the first time he’s done so tonight, and he looks about to say something, but it lasts for barely a fraction of a second before it’s gone. He doesn’t speak, only sighs shakily before looking away again.

Severus doesn’t ask. He leans forward instead, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead, soft curls tickling his nose in the process. Then he cups the back of the boy’s head, caressing his neck softly.

“I know we’ve only just met, but I care about you very much,” Severus says. “I want you to know that. And I would never hurt you. What happened last night… you have nothing to be sorry for. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have insisted, I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. And if I ever do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or that scares you, I want you to tell me. And I promise I won’t get mad.”

“It’s not you,” Harry says weakly, shaking his head. “It’s me. It’s not you, I swear. You didn’t do anything.”

“It doesn’t matter. Promise you’ll tell me.”

Harry nods, eyes bright with unshed tears. “I promise,” he whispers, reaching out to rake his hands through Severus’ hair, making him shiver.

“I need a haircut,” Severus says.

Harry frowns. “Don’t do that.”

“It gets in the way.”

The boy smiles, grabs one of the rubber bands that was tying the takeaway chopsticks together, and slips his hands into Severus’ hair again, pushing it back and tying it at the nape of his neck.

“There,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just below Severus’ ear. “Makes you look sexy.”

Severus shivers. How is it that everything Harry does just electrifies him?

He runs the pad of his thumb across Harry’s bottom lip softly, lovingly, and Harry grabs his hand, leaning into the touch. Then, eyes darkening, he opens his mouth to suck on Severus’ finger.

The spark of desire that shoots through his body is so intense Severus feels it in his heels.

“It just occurred to me that you haven’t seen my bedroom yet,” he says, voice raspy and dry.

Harry frowns. “No, I haven’t. You’re such a terrible host.”

“Shall I give you the grand tour, then?”

“Yes, please.”

They all but scramble off the sofa, Severus grabbing Harry’s hand and leading him into the darkness of the hallway towards his bedroom.

Maybe he doesn’t think this through enough, maybe he’s too quick about it, because Harry stops abruptly in the middle of the hallway, pulling Severus to a halt.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Severus assures softly when he sees the conflicted expression on the boy’s face. “We can just–”

“It’s not that…” Harry starts. Then he sighs, a shaky breath, and pulls Severus sideways into the darkness of the bathroom instead.

He pats the wall until he finds the light switch, flicks it, and they stand there for a moment in the bright, crisp light of the white walls and mirrors.

“What’s wrong?” Severus asks gently, stroking Harry’s arms in reassurance.

“About last night…” Harry says finally, not meeting his eyes.

“We don’t have to talk about it–”

Harry shakes his head. “No. We do. I want to.”

“Okay.”

Harry rubs at his face, taking a deep breath, but he’s silent for another long moment until he finally speaks.

“It’s not you, or anything you did. I don’t want you to think that. And it’s not… anyone else either.”

Severus nods. “Okay.”

Harry’s still not meeting his eyes, so Severus waits. He’ll wait as long as he has to.

And then, swiftly, shakily, as if to just get it over with, Harry reaches up, pulling his t-shirt off over his head. And he stands there stiffly, shoulders hunched.

Severus lets his eyes travel the length of his pale torso, taking in the lovely flat stomach, the rosy nipples, the curve of his collarbones and shoulders.

He’s about to ask Harry what this is about when he raises his eyes and looks in the mirror. He sucks in a breath, throat suddenly dry.

Starting slightly below the nape of his neck and trailing down the whole left side of Harry’s back, is an enormous burn scar. It covers his shoulder-blade, runs down his spine, and curls across his side before fading.

“There was a fire,” Harry says softly. “When I was four years old. I’m the only one who survived.”

Severus’ insides freeze, his heart clenching.

Good God… Lupin told him the boy’s parents died when he was little, but he’d never thought… He didn’t know there’d been a fire. He didn’t know Harry was in there with them.

“How?” he manages to ask through the knot in his throat.

Harry shrugs. “They found me in the garden. My dad got me out and went back in for my mum. But the house collapsed on top of them.”

Severus can’t stop looking at the scar. In his head he imagines the flames licking Harry’s skin and it makes him nauseous.

“Does it hurt?”

Harry’s voice is strangely detached. “No. I don’t feel much of anything.”

“Is that why you didn’t want me to touch you? You didn’t want me to see it?”

“Yes.” A whisper, so full of shame it tears at Severus’ heart.

“Why?”

“You always… You look at me like I’m perfect, and…” Harry’s lips are trembling, and he wipes at his eyes though there’s no tears yet. “And I like it.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t want to touch you if I saw it?”

Harry shakes his head, wiping his eyes once more. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Has this happened before?”

Harry shrugs again, and it’s all the answer Severus needs. “I don’t… I try not to…”

“Not to show anyone?”

“Yes. Just… you know, just to save myself the trouble.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. He hasn’t met Severus’ eyes since his shirt came off.

“It makes me feel ugly,” he whispers, as if he’s wanted to say this for years and is only just admitted it.

A fat tear rolls down his cheek and Severus’ heart break cleanly in two at the sight. He grabs Harry’s face gently in both hands, kissing his eyelids one after the other, tasting salt on his lips.

“You could never be ugly, even if you tried. You’re beautiful and brave. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re perfect.”

Harry breaks down, sobbing into his chest as Severus caresses his back softly. The scarred flesh feels soft against his fingertips, the skin thinner and fragile, and it seems like it should hurt, but Harry doesn’t flinch away, only cries harder, overcome with emotion, leaning back into his touch.

Severus holds him through it, his insides shaking in anger. The thought of anyone rejecting Harry because of this makes him so furious is jaw aches from clenching.

When the sobs have stopped, and Harry’s just resting his head against Severus’ chest quietly, breathing hard, Severus pulls away and wipes the tears from the boy’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles. “I’m pathetic…”

“You’re not pathetic,” Severus tells him soothingly, ignoring the damp patch on his shirt. “Come. I promised to show you my bedroom, didn’t I?”

Harry smiles, green eyes shining like the tree leaves in Severus’s dream, and he nods, bending to pick his t-shirt up from the floor.

“Leave that. You won’t need it,” Severus says, already pulling him away.

He stands Harry in the middle of his bedroom and strips off the rest of the boy’s clothes slowly, kissing every inch of skin as he does so. The lights are off, but the blinds are open, and the city lights cast dancing shadows on Harry’s pale, gorgeous body.

He licks at Harry’s cock until it’s hard and weeping and Harry moans, fingers pulling at his hair, which has come undone from the small ponytail already.

Severus stands, trailing kisses on his stomach along the way.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, caressing Harry’s face.

The boy nods at once, eyes dark with desire. “Yes.”

“Lie down on your stomach.”

Harry obeys, sprawling across Severus’ bed, burying his face in the pillows.

The sight of him, so trusting, so open and vulnerable and beautiful. God, Severus is rock hard just at the sight.

He strips and crawls onto the bed, hot skin pressing against Harry’s, his wet cock sliding against the back of Harry’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Harry moans.

Severus mouths at the nape of his neck, then at his shoulders, and Harry almost starts sobbing when Severus kisses his scar, mapping out the contours of it with his tongue.

“You don’t have to do that,” he mumbles in shock.

“I want to,” Severus whispers into his ear. “You’re so beautiful. All of you.”

He kisses down the length of Harry’s spine, relishing in the moans and whimpers, then crawls down Harry’s body, kisses the dimples on his lower back, trails his tongue across Harry’s tailbone and the cleft of his arse.

“Fuck!” Harry gasps softly, nearly pulling away. “You don’t have to do that!” he says again, sounding at once offended and mad with lust.

“I want to,” Severus rasps against his skin. “God, I’ve thought about this since the moment I met you.”

He slides his palms along Harry’s thighs, opening them up, caressing, making Harry moan into the pillow.

“Your housemates aren’t here. Let me hear you,” Severus pleads before parting Harry’s cheeks and licking broadly over his hole.

The sound that escapes Harry’s throat then, raw and uncontrollable, is almost enough to make Severus come untouched. And it only gets worse as he starts sucking at Harry’s rim and the boy whines in pleasure, pushing back against him.

Fuck! He’ll never last! He has to keep his mind off this.

_Dr. & Mrs. Vandertramp!_ That should do it!

Severus struggles to remember, starts reciting the French irregular verbs in his head.

_Devenir_ … to become.

_Revenir_ … to come back.

_Monter_ … to climb.

_Rester_ … to stay.

“Fuuuuuuck…” Harry moans loudly, pushing back on his tongue, and Severus makes the mistake of looking up at him.

Eyes shut tight. Hands gripping the edges of the mattress, cheek pressed against the pillow. Mouth open and panting.

_Sortir!_ he thinks urgently. _Sortir_ … to exit.

_Venir_ … to come.

Oh God… to come…

“Yes?” he slurs, pressing a finger to Harry’s wet hole.

“Yesssss!” Harry hisses, pushing back.

Where was he? Where the fuck was he?

_Aller! Aller_ … to go.

_Naître_ … to be born.

_Descendre_ … to descend.

_Entrer_ … to enter.

Severus slips a second finger inside and Harry moans in pleasure, pushing back almost roughly.

“Fuck me,” he gasps in between whines. “Come on, Severus… Please…”

Something occurs to him then, and Severus freezes in realisation.

“Shit…” he mumbles. “Shit… tell me you have condoms.”

Harry falls silent. “You don’t?” he rasps in disbelief.

“Of course not! I haven’t been… seeing anyone... I just… Fuck!”

“Go get some then!”

“Are you mad? I can’t go out like this!”

Harry shakes his head, his face still half-pressed into the pillow. “Check in my bag… maybe there’s some at the bottom…”

Severus all but runs from the bedroom.

_God almighty, if you exist… Please, please, please…_

He rummages through Harry’s bag wildly, past books and all sorts of stuff. There’s a contact lenses case at the bottom, some old bus passes, shrivelled up receipts. Then his fingers graze the small plastic wrapper of one, lonely condom. He pulls it out, holds it up to the light.

It’s bright green.

Harry’s still sprawled on the bed when he returns. He hasn’t moved an inch. Severus will never tire of seeing him like this.

He should just keep the boy locked up, never let him leave. They could spend the rest of their lives here, kissing and fucking and never seeing the light of day again.

“What’s with these?” he asks, climbing up on the bed and holding the condom out so Harry can see it. “Rainbow colours?”

Harry chuckles into the pillow. “It was just a silly Christmas present,” he whispers softly.

Severus pinches his bum playfully. “You’re not falling asleep, are you?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good, because this isn’t over yet. Get on your knees,” he whispers into Harry’s ear. “Come on. Don’t make me do all the work, that’s not polite.”

Harry laughs, shifting onto his knees in the middle of the bed. Severus settles behind him, kisses his neck as he slips on the condom.

It looks bloody ridiculous, but he’s too far gone to care.

“Lean back,” he says, guiding Harry up against him until they’re pressed together, back to chest, and he presses the tip of his cock to Harry’s entrance, tentatively. “Like this? Yes?”

“Yes…” Harry gasps, arching back into him. “Yessss…” he says again as Severus slides in.

Severus takes his time. He knows he’s big, has been told so before, and hurting Harry is the last thing he wants.

“Good?” he asks, out of breath, when he finally bottoms out, caressing Harry’s side softly.

“Oh. Fuck… yes…”

Severus thrusts in slowly a few times.

Fuck… This is… this is beyond words. Harry is beyond words. Severus has never been so turned on in his entire goddamn life.

Harry’s skin. Harry reaching back to grip onto his thighs. Harry’s arse moving on his cock.

_Retourner_ … to return.

_Tomber_ … to fall.

“Here?” he rasps out into Harry’s neck, pressing his cock against the boy’s prostate.

“Fuck!” Harry whines, head rolling back against Severus’ shoulder. “Yes…” he moans, spreading his legs wider.

It’s too much! Severus jabs in a few times, hard. And the sounds Harry makes, halfway between moans and sobs, are more beautiful than anything he’s heard before in his life.

_Arriver!_ he thinks hurriedly as he keeps thrusting, hard and fast.

_Arriver_ … to arrive.

_Mourir_ … to die.

Harry gasps suddenly then, body gone rigid, almost pulling away.

Severus stops, ice spreading in his chest in fear. He curls his arms around Harry, holding him close.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispers in horror.

“I… Just… give me a sec…” Harry pants out, his whole body shaking,

Severus presses his hand against Harry’s chest, where his heart is beating wildly, where his breath struggles in and out, in and out. He kisses Harry’s neck softly, soothingly.

“What happened? Did I hurt you?” he asks again.

“No,” Harry mumbles, “I don’t know… It’s not that… I… Fuck… I don’t know what’s happening to me… I’ve never felt…”

Severus understands then. It’s something new for him, too.

It’s this thing! This bloody thing… The thing that flutters in his chest, whatever it is. Harry feels it too.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Do you want to stop?”

“Oh fuck… no…” Harry moans, pushing back. “Just… Harder… Fuck me harder…”

A moment later, Harry is holding tightly onto the headboard as Severus rams into him in long, hard thrusts.

The sight of him… Body taunt, neck arched beautifully. Sweat dripping down the length of his spine.

_Mourir_ … to die.

_Mourir_ …

What comes after? Severus can’t remember the last one.

_Mourir_ … to die.

_Mourir_ …

He pauses, pulls Harry’s body back into his again. He just can’t stand not to feel Harry’s skin.

“Almost there. Together?”

“Yes…” Harry gasps, crying out when Severus starts stroking his cock slowly, thumbing at the head.

Gripping Severus’ thighs for support, Harry fucks himself on his cock, moaning loudly as Severus sucks on his neck.

_Mourir_ … Severus thinks. _Mourir_ …

And when he comes, Harry’s hole clenching around him, it’s all Severus can do not to black out.

_This_ , he thinks dazedly, holding onto Harry for dear life as he gasps for breath, coming down from a high he’s never managed to reach before, with anyone.

He’s forty years old and he’s never felt anything this strongly.

It’s so beautiful it hurts.

What was that line from Duffy’s poem again?

_Falling in love is glamorous hell…_

Is that what this is then? Is this what falling in love, really falling in love, feels like?

_This_ , Severus thinks as they lie down, and he cradles Harry’s sweat-soaked head against his chest.

_This… whatever the fuck this is. It’s like staring in the face of God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> – _When sorrows come they come not single spies..._ is a quote from Hamlet.
> 
> – The Murakami quote is from _After the Quake._
> 
> – The poem Severus reads Harry is “You,” from Carol Ann Duffy’s _Rapture_.
> 
> – The piece Harry plays is Paganini’s Caprice for violin No. 2 in B Minor.
> 
> – The Four Seasons recomposed are by Max Richter.
> 
> – The poem Severus writes is an original creation by me. Please don’t use it without my permission.
> 
> – _Rear Window_ , _Vertigo_ , and _Marnie_ are all films by Alfred Hitchcock.
> 
> – _Dr. & Mrs Vandertramp_ is a mnemonic acronym to help students of French as a second language remember the irregular verbs.


	4. mouthfuls of silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But as Severus looks deep into Harry’s green, green eyes, fear suddenly takes hold of him again. Is this real? Is he just making this up? Perhaps he’s wanted Harry so much that he’s finally lost his mind and is imagining all this...No, this is definitely real. It has to be. Even his imagination couldn’t possibly come up with something so fucking good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life got in the way, work especially. It’s been crazy and I could barely find time or energy to write. A lot of this chapter was written in a hurry on my phone during commute and then polished later on. And of course, everything had to be absolutely perfect before I posted it, which took some more time. Every day that passed without this being ready was torture, but at least once again I’ve come up with a monster of a chapter. This is the longest one yet. I had planned for each chapter to cover three days, but I had to stop at two for this one, otherwise it was never going to be ready. 
> 
> I hope you’ll enjoy it, and that it’ll be worth the long wait. I’m bracing myself for next chapter, which I expect will be one of the toughest to write yet. Send me positive vibes, everyone. Send me some love. Don’t hesitate to comment and let me know what you think, what you like, etc. Author seriously needs some TLC right now!
> 
> Oh, I made some changes to the tags, so you might want to look at that.
> 
> Btw, I’m on Tumblr now (liladiurne). Feel free to drop by if you’d like to chat about hp or snarry, or anything else, or if you have some questions regarding this fic, or if you just want to talk.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND EDITED ON 12-12-2018.

 

* * *

 

-4-  
**mouthfuls of silence**

 

 _and so we touched, and maybe_  
_our breathing together was some kind of heavenly conversation_  
_in God’s delicate and magnifying language, the one_  
_we don’t dare speak out loud,_  
_not yet._

MARY OLIVER

 

* * *

 

Severus has seen a picture once, of sand under an electron microscope. It was part of a _National Geographic_ issue that he’d been reading because some of Étienne’s photographs were featured in an article. He’d heard before, that as with snowflakes, every grain of sand is unique, that no two are exactly alike, but had never realised how much so until then.

It just looks so ordinary to the naked eye, like a handful of little brown rocks. But the magnified image showed that each one is a delicately-shaped, microscopic piece of glass, seashell or coral, transparent or opaque, smooth or jagged, in a myriad of colours. Choose one, and you could comb through all the beaches of the world and never find another one like it.

That’s the way he feels about Harry.

Oh, Harry’s already stunning from a distance, there’s no doubt about that. But it’s ineffable how breathtaking Harry is up close. And Severus feels he could travel the entire world and never find anything even remotely comparable, remotely as alluring and rare and fragile.

Sleep eludes him still, and he lies awake all night once again, going through a panoply of scenarios in his head, trying to explain how Harry could have possibly ended up in his bed like this.

For a short while, he even considers the possibility that this is all a cruel deception, a scheme designed to humiliate him, to torture him.

James Potter and Sirius Black are not really dead! Yes, that’s it! That would explain everything! They are still alive, and upon hearing of Severus’ return to London through their friend Lupin, they’ve enlisted this boy’s help to plot his downfall. To make him fall in love, and then break his heart.

He doesn’t really believe this, of course. It’s all just idle thoughts. And he knows Harry would never do such a thing. He barely knows Harry, and yet he knows this with absolute certainty.

Even with all his little white lies, Harry would never hurt another living soul willingly. Not when he smiles like that, with his eyes so expressive and honest. Not when he lets his guard down, reveals his shame so bravely, cries so openly.

Not when he lets Severus fuck him like that, so intense and passionate that it’s not even fucking. It’s making love.

This boy, Severus is relieved and elated to admit, is nothing, nothing like his father was.

He’s nothing like anybody is or ever was. Or ever will be.

Severus can only stare in speechless wonder at the sight that greets him when morning comes.

He wants to imprint it in his mind, carve it inside his eyelids. Remember it until the day he dies.

The sight of Harry still asleep, pale and beautiful and breathing softly, sunlight kissing his skin.

He’s lying half on his stomach, his back to Severus, who has moved the sheets away to look at him better, to memorise the soft curve of his buttocks, of his spine, of his shoulders, of the nape of his neck.

Harry’s opened the window sometime in the night, claiming the room was too hot, and there’s a gentle breeze now, caressing Severus’ skin. Normally he would be cold, but Harry’s body and the bright sunlight manage to keep him warm.

He looks at Harry’s scar in the light of day, examining it closely for a long time. But no matter how long he stares, no matter which way he looks at it, Severus can’t find it in him to call it ugly.

The skin is a fascinating amalgam of colours and textures. Slightly pink or almost silvery. Thicker in some areas, stretched thinner in others. Sometimes irregularly dented, almost like scales, or like the pattern on a piece of coral.

Harry is a sea creature. A siren that he’s taken captive. No, not taken captive, because Harry has him wrapped around his finger. A creature that’s willingly crawled out of the ocean to come to him. To entrance him, enslave him.

Harry is a centuries-old marble statue, a forgotten Bernini masterpiece, forever frozen in youth. Lost in a shipwreck ages ago, he’s been found again innocuously and brought out of the water, half covered in seashells and algae. And now he’s come alive in Severus’ bedroom. Like Galatea in Pygmalion’s workshop, awakened by the Gods as a gift to him.

Just as Severus smiles at these thoughts, a sigh, barely perceptible, and a slight change to Harry’s breathing tell him the boy is waking up. And because he can’t stop himself, he brings his mouth to Harry’s neck and presses a kiss there, where the skin is warm and soft, and Harry’s hair tickles his cheek.

“Good morning,” he says, earning himself a shiver as his breath touches Harry’s skin.

He smiles, kissing the same spot again, and then again.

Harry stirs, stretching slowly, lazily, before turning his tousled head to look at him over a pale shoulder.

“Hi…” he says softly in the hushed tones of the barely awake. Then he blinks, grimaces and rubs at his eyes. “Shit…” he grumbles. “…shouldn’t have slept with my contacts on.”

Severus wants to sympathise, he really does, but it’s a difficult feat. Because even groggy and scowling, Harry is fucking radiant. Sunlight streams through the bedroom window, caressing his face, making his eyes gleam a paler shade of green, almost transparent.

 _Eyes of adventure and light-years_ , just like Miron wrote.

“Are you sore?” he asks, fingers trailing along Harry’s thigh.

He’s been thinking about this incessantly all night. How he should have taken things slowly, how he should have been gentle. He’s still haunted by that moment when he thought he’d been too rough, when Harry had flinched and nearly pulled away. God, he had been so repulsed with himself then.

“Yeah, a little,” Harry admits, but he’s grinning now. “I don’t mind, though.”

Severus caresses his face, the curve of his lips, the side of his jaw. And he has this vision of last night. Harry sprawled on his bed, whimpering on his tongue.

He’s half hard already, just at the thought.

“Last night,” he whispers, still caught in the memory, still hearing Harry’s moans, like music to his ears, like a fucking symphony. “Nobody had ever done that to you?”

Harry bites his lips, suddenly self-conscious. “No.”

“I find that hard to believe–”

“I’m not lying,” Harry mumbles reproachfully.

“I know. It was obvious. Hey, don’t blush.” He catches Harry’s chin to stop him looking away in embarrassment. “You didn’t blush last night when I had my tongue up your arse,” he teases fondly.

Harry groans, but he’s half laughing. He pulls away, hides his face in his hands for a second before looking back at Severus accusingly.

“Maybe I did. How would you know? You had your tongue up my arse.”

Severus laughs, pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder.

And God, it feels so good to laugh like this, freely, genuinely, with this beautiful, brilliant boy next to him. In his bedroom. In his bed.

He’s missed this type of intimacy, this closeness, this bond that forms almost instantly between lovers, sometimes even without their noticing.

To have this again, after so long. To have this with Harry, of all people.

Maybe Harry is attuned to him already. Maybe he’s noticed this change, the instant his laughter becomes tinged with something else, something akin to nostalgia, because suddenly Harry has fully turned to face him and is kissing him tenderly.

Severus responds at once, reaching out to cradle Harry’s head in his hands. He pushes messy hair away from Harry’s face, where the sweat from last night has dried and it’s stuck to his forehead, and he deepens the kiss, sucking Harry’s tongue into his mouth.

God, he’d forgotten how good this is. How could he forget?

He’s fully hard now, cock pressed against Harry’s stomach, and Harry arches into him, their legs tangling. Every touch of his body shoots like a spark through Severus, and this unnamed thing stirs inside his chest again. A tremor at once soft and overwhelming.

He would crawl inside Harry’s body if he could, where it’s warm and safe, and spend the rest of his life there, at peace.

Or he would let Harry crawl into his instead, and he would wrap around him, keep him away from harm, from prying eyes and scowling faces and stupid fucking idiots who would want to make him feel ugly when he’s the most exquisite thing that’s ever walked the earth.

Abandoning Harry’s mouth, Severus kisses along his jaw, drifting to his neck, and sure enough, Harry moans deeply, leaning into him. The sound of it goes straight to Severus’ cock. God, he could probably come just from this, just from hearing Harry make those sounds.

His body is not his own anymore. It belongs to Harry now.

Harry’s hands slide down his chest and lower still until they wrap around his cock, and Severus chokes out a moan, latching onto Harry’s ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth, biting on it lightly.

“Let me?” Harry whispers.

“God yes…”

 _You don’t have to ask_ , Severus wants to tell him. _You could do anything you want to me and I would let you. My body is yours now, completely yours. And my heart. Do you know that you hold my heart in your hands already? You could crush it and I would be powerless to stop you._

But he can’t say any of this. It’s too much too soon.

It scares the shit out of him, he can’t even imagine how Harry could react if he knew how far gone he is already.

_Don’t say anything, Severus. Don’t fuck things up. Don’t scare him away._

“Oh God…” he gasps, shivering with want when Harry straddles him, grazing his cock.

Harry grins. “Call me Harry, it’s fine,” he mutters before attacking Severus’ neck.

Severus huffs with laughter, tangling his hands into Harry’s hair as the boy’s mouth leaves wet trails down his throat and chest, tongue grazing nipples along the way, travelling lower still.

“Oh God… Harry…” he moans when finally, finally Harry reaches his cock, licks the underside of it, sucks the tip into his mouth.

Severus lets his head fall back on the pillow, pleasure flashing brightly through, like a bolt of lightning behind his eyelids, as Harry takes him deep into his throat. It takes everything he has not to buck into Harry’s mouth, not to thrust deeper. He presses his arse into the bed, holding back.

_Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him. Don’t you fucking hurt him._

Barely a minute ago, he was teasing Harry about last night, and now he’s the one who feels like an overwhelmed teenager touched intimately for the first time.

Is it mad that he can’t even remember the last time someone did this to him? It wasn’t something Colin particularly enjoyed doing, and in all the years they spent together, Severus can probably count on one hand the number of times it happened. Colin was always a prissy, selfish lover. He would take and take and rarely give anything back.

_Good God, don’t think about Colin! Why would you think about Colin now?_

There was Étienne, of course. But whatever it is Severus had with Étienne, as intense as it was, it doesn’t even compare to what he feels for Harry.

_Stop it! Don’t think about Étienne either!_

Of course, Harry would be good at this, too, Severus thinks hazily as Harry licks and sucks and takes him deeper again and again.

He plays Severus’ body like his violin. Expertly. Effortlessly. And Severus struggles not to think about what this could mean. About all the practice he must have had to suck cock like this at nineteen.

_Bloody hell! Don’t think about that! Don’t think about that!_

Does Harry do this often? Is he seeing anyone else? One would be tempted to think not, of course, since he’s here with Severus now, like this. But who is he to know? Teenagers these days are not the most monogamous creatures.

_What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you want to torture yourself at a time like this? Can’t you just enjoy this without overthinking it?_

Harry is swallowing around his cock, struggling to breathe. Severus pulls on his hair lightly to let him know that it’s okay if this is too much, that he doesn’t have to do this. But still Harry holds him in deep, humming in reassurance, and Severus gasps at the feeling, half elated, half scared.

When he looks down, Harry is staring right at him with watery eyes, but Severus knows that if his mouth wasn’t full, Harry would be smirking at him in triumph.

“Harry…” Severus moans, and he can’t help himself. He thrusts in. Once, twice. And Harry takes it.

It’s too much! Too perfect! He won’t last.

He keeps thrusting, fingers in Harry’s hair, pulling gently.

_Don’t fucking hurt him._

“I’m close… God… Harry…”

Harry holds still into his thrusts, letting Severus’ cock hit the back of his throat again and again. Then he presses down on Severus’ thighs, pushing him back against the bed, and bobs his head a few times. And then… fuck… then he lets his teeth graze gently on the underside of Severus’ cock on the way down, a light scrape that makes Severus’ body jolt like he’s just been struck by lightning.

He comes down Harry’s throat with a shout, embarrassingly loudly in the silent bedroom, torn between pleasure and shock and this thing again, pounding like a second heart inside his chest.

And maybe, just maybe he blacks out a little, because when he opens his eyes, Harry is lying next to him, propped up on his elbow, staring at him with a softened expression on his face. Something like fondness tinged with amusement.

“Who’s blushing now?” he teases, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Severus mumbles before drawing him closer and kissing him deeply, tasting himself in Harry’s mouth.

This. Harry’s body, his presence, his mere existence. This is electrifying.

Will this ever get old?

To think that Severus almost never had this, that he could have gone to sleep alone, woken up alone in a cold bed without knowing how this feels. He thought he’d ruined things beyond repair, that he’d pushed Harry too far, scared him away. And in another universe, he did ruin things. In another universe, Harry never came back to him.

Somewhere, sometime, another Severus is alone.

_Don’t think about that._

“Thank you,” he says before he can stop himself.

They’ve not quite separated yet, are still half kissing, and the words fall somewhere near Harry’s nose.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Harry mumbles against his skin. “I liked it, too.”

He leans into Severus’ body, his cock hard and pressing into Severus’ thigh, and licks across his lips, then sucks on his chin playfully.

Severus shakes his head. “I didn’t mean for that… Well… thank you for that also… yes… but I meant… Stop!” he hisses, laughing. “Stop licking me and listen for a second!”

He catches Harry’s grinning face in his hands to stop the assault.

“I meant thank you for last night, for coming back,” Severus tells him quietly. “For trusting me.”

Harry’s eyes soften, and he let out a shaky breath before looking away, conflicted. For a second it looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. He pulls away, rolling onto his back on the bed.

Severus’ stomach is in knots.

_You shouldn’t have said anything. You should have left it alone._

“I wasn’t going to come back,” Harry says quietly, biting his lip, looking at the ceiling to avoid looking into Severus’ eyes. “I wanted to, but I was scared.”

“But you did.”

“It was Ron,” Harry explains with a slight curl of his lips. “He told me I should give you a chance. And he doesn’t usually… Well, let’s just say it’s unlike him to approve of anyone I’m… interested in.”

He pauses pensively, struggling for words.

Suddenly, Severus has the vivid impression that maybe Harry is just like him, constantly fighting with his own thoughts, torn between what he wants to say and what he should be saying, wondering what the other person wants to hear or is hoping not to hear.

And just like Severus, maybe what he’s not saying speaks louder than the words he does say.

 _Two mouthfuls of silence_ , as Celan wrote.

Maybe they’re the same after all. They’re the same, and yet Severus can’t fathom what sort of thoughts could be going through Harry’s head right now. Despite this incredible, unexplainable connection they have, the workings of Harry’s heart remain a mystery to him.

“Anyways, it’s really Ron you should thank, I guess,” Harry finishes with a shrug.

Severus shakes his head, carding his fingers through Harry’s messy curls soothingly. “It was your decision in the end.”

 _You’re the brave one_ , he wants to say. _I would have never had the courage to do what you did. I would have cowered at home and ruined everything_.

“Maybe,” Harry says quietly. “What did you tell him anyway?”

Severus smiles, his hand trailing down to touch the side of Harry’s face.

He doesn’t even recall what exactly he told Ron the other day. Something about Harry helping him and him helping Harry in return. Something sappy like that.

It feels like forever ago that he was eating lukewarm eggs in Harry’s kitchen, being scolded by his friend. It was all in another lifetime. They’ve been lying here, in this bed, for decades.

“Nothing much,” he mumbles, before kissing Harry’s shoulder, then kissing it again and again.

“Fine,” Harry huffs. “Keep your secrets. Whatever it was, he seems to genuinely like you.”

Severus snorts, licking into the crook of Harry’s neck, where he tastes sweaty and delicious.

“I didn’t get that impression at all. Maybe his girlfriend changed his mind. He mentioned that she likes my work.”

“Yes, Hermione. I told you about her. She wants to meet you.”

Severus hums distractedly against his skin. He doesn’t want to talk about Harry’s friends anymore. There’s the pale length of Harry’s throat and his gorgeous lips calling for attention. Then there’s Harry’s lovely cock rubbing against him.

All in all, Severus is thoroughly inattentive to anything any of Harry’s friends might expect of him.

“I meant to ask,” Harry ventures. “Last night, you said you started writing again.”

Severus pauses in his exploration of Harry’s left collarbone. “Yes, I did.”

“Was it because of me?”

“Possibly,” Severus mumbles.

It’s strange how he’s suddenly embarrassed. Maybe he’s not ready to admit that what happened with Harry has inspired him in such a way, that the whole ordeal, the thought of losing him, was powerful enough to end the drought he’s been stuck in for two years now.

Harry doesn’t reply, but when Severus looks up, their gazes meet at once. Harry’s eyes stare into his intently, still full of sunlight, and he gets the sudden feeling that the boy understands everything. The depth of his affection, the intensity of it, the embarrassment, the confusion, the euphoria.

“If anyone else had asked me to play the other night,” Harry says softly, eyes never leaving his, “I would have told them to fuck off. Anyone else.”

“Why did you play for me then?” Severus asks, mouth suddenly dry.

Harry shrugs, looking away at last, and Severus immediately misses the caress of his stare.

“I don’t know,” Harry muses. “I felt like I should.”

Severus’ heart gives a painful lurch. He reaches out, catching Harry’s chin gently in hand.

“Like you owed me something?” he drawls.

Is this how Harry feels then? Like Severus made him feel good, so he should reciprocate? Does he feel obliged to give something back? Is this all there is to it?

“I don’t ever want you to feel this way,” he adds, throat tight.

Harry smiles faintly, shaking his head. He grabs hold of Severus’ hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing the palm.

“That’s not what I meant. I felt like I wanted to give you that. Like you needed it, maybe.” He kisses Severus’ fingertips, one after the other. “And I think I needed it, too.”

He trails off, sucking two of Severus’ fingers into his mouth, his eyes lighting up as he twirls his tongue around them.

The thing in Severus’ chest starts quivering, fluttering like a bird. He smiles and slides his free hand down the length of Harry’s chest, along his ribs, slowly towards his cock.

“And what do you need right now?”

Harry arches into his touch. “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” he gasps.

“Yes, how rude of me,” Severus mumbles, resting his hand low on Harry’s stomach.

“So rude.”

Harry moans, biting lightly on his fingers, leaning into him, urging his hand lower. But still Severus doesn’t move.

God, his hand looks so huge, resting like this on the boy’s slender body, that he looks away in shame.

He licks a long strip of skin on Harry’s throat instead.

“You like it when I kiss you here, don’t you?” he breathes out.

“Fuck yes…”

“Lovely,” Severus mumbles before pressing his mouth to Harry’s skin once again, sucking on a spot just beneath Harry’s ear, near his hairline.

The very spot he was sucking on last night, while Harry fucked himself on his cock, while they came together.

“Can I leave a mark?” he asks, panting slightly.

“Yes,” Harry whines at once. “Oh, please.”

Severus complies, sucking hungrily at his skin, and the way Harry moans then is so completely sinful and so completely beautiful that were Severus not forty years old, and had he not just had the life sucked out of him through his cock, he’d be hard again instantly just at the sound of it.

Harry’s hands tangle in his hair, holding his head there, pressing it harder into his skin. And Harry’s body thrusts against his slowly, like the tide gliding in and out. Like the ocean carrying him away.

“Oh fuck…” Harry gasps. “Please touch me… Severus…”

Severus can only oblige, completely disarmed by the way his name sounds coming from Harry’s mouth, and he wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock at last.

“Fuuuuuuck…” Harry moans, fingers pulling on Severus’ hair in encouragement.

Severus unlatches his mouth from Harry’s neck to look at his face.

He’s so stunning like this, head thrown back, eyes shut in pleasure, mouth open and gasping.

Severus, however, prefers him bright-eyed and loud and unbidden.

“Look at me.”

Harry’s eyes flutter open, green flecked with gold, and it’s like opening the door to someplace sacred.

“I want to watch you,” Severus whispers.

Harry bites his lower lip, eyes widening. Embarrassment tinged with arousal. But he’s moaning again in no time when Severus changes the pace of his strokes, slow but firmer.

“Let me see you,” Severus begs, caressing Harry’s neck soothingly with his free hand. “Yes?”

Harry’s answer comes out in a breath, almost shy. “Yes…”

“Yes?” Severus echoes, desire coursing through his whole fucking body.

“Yessssss…” Harry says again, half a whine, staring straight into his eyes as Severus strokes his cock faster.

Having Harry like this is like holding a treasure. Like handling a revered artefact not meant for mortal hands.

Is Severus even worthy of this?

Will he have to pay for this desecration somehow?

“Tell me what you like,” he all but pleads.

Harry huffs a laugh and looks away briefly, suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s okay,” Severus tells him gently. “Look at me. Tell me what you like. I want to know. Like this? Slower?”

“Slower…” Harry breathes, barely audible in the silence of the bedroom.

His eyes flutter shut briefly as Severus obeys, but open again at once, alight with pleasure.

“Tell me.”

“Tighter,” Harry whispers. “Oh, fuuuuuck… yes! Like that…”

“Good?” Severus rasps, eyes never leaving Harry’s face.

A meteor could strike the city, could smash into the ground right on the street outside and he wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from this.

“Yes,” Harry moans. “So good…”

He lets his hands, which have been holding onto Severus’ shoulders tightly, fall to his sides and clutch the bedsheets instead.

The gesture goes straight to Severus’ heart. A testament of trust.

Harry, so guarded and cautious at the beginning, is now giving himself to him, putting his body in Severus’ hands.

“Close?” Severus asks, throat drier than the fucking Sahara.

Harry nods, mouth open and gasping, arching into Severus’ touch, as if urging him on faster. But Severus keeps a slow pace, his grip tight and irregular, thumb squeezing the head of Harry’s cock every few strokes.

“Fuuuuck…” Harry gasps, fingers twisting in the sheets, head thrown back in pleasure. “So close…”

“Look at me,” Severus begs, slipping his hand under Harry’s head and cradling it gently. “Let me watch you come.”

Harry would probably blush if he wasn’t so far gone, and Severus himself is almost embarrassed by how intense he’s being, by how badly he wants this. But Harry obliges. He looks straight into Severus’ eyes and wraps his arms around Severus’ neck, holding him so close they breathe each other’s breaths.

“Severus…” he moans loudly when he comes, a broken sob, indescribably beautiful, as Severus strokes him through it.

Why do people need religion? Why do people need churches and miracles and God when they can have this?

But as Severus looks deep into Harry’s green, green eyes, fear suddenly takes hold of him again.

Is this even real? Or is he just making this up?

Perhaps he’s wanted Harry so badly that he’s finally lost his mind and is imagining all this.

No. No, this is definitely real.

Even his imagination couldn’t possibly come up with something so fucking good.

Severus kisses him, caressing his thigh, not caring if he’s smearing come everywhere. Harry doesn’t seem to mind either. He kisses back fiercely, and when they separate, he takes Severus’ face in his hands, holding it close to his own.

“What’s wrong?” he asks breathlessly, looking searchingly into Severus’ eyes.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Why?”

Harry stares at him for a moment, still struggling to even his breathing.

“It’s just… Sometimes… when you look at me, you get sad all of a sudden, and…”

He trails off, fingers stroking the nape of Severus’ neck for a moment before he continues, cautiously.

“Listen, I know that… that your lover died last year, and if this is too soon–”

“No, it’s not that. It’s not that at all.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Harry says in a rush. “I’m sorry.”

Severus shakes his head. He rests his hand on Harry’s neck, caressing it tenderly. He can feel Harry’s heartbeat through the skin, pulsing wildly still.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s just… difficult.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it, it’s okay. I’m sorry,” Harry repeats.

“I want to tell you. I will. Some other time, I promise.”

He means it. He hopes this thing they have, whatever it is, will come to that. He hopes there will come a time when he can talk about this part of his life, when he can share all this with Harry.

Harry nods, gently pushing a strand of hair away from Severus’ eyes.

“For now, I was just thinking about how much I want to keep you,” Severus reveals, leaning in to press his face in the crook of Harry’s warm neck.

Harry hums in contentment, wrapping his limbs around Severus’ body and clinging to him tightly. “You can keep me all you want.”

Severus laughs, cups Harry’s face to press messy kisses to his mouth and chin.

“Your hand’s all sticky,” Harry mumbles, but he doesn’t pull away, only deepens the kiss, his soft, warm tongue invading Severus’ mouth.

They stay like this for a long time, just kissing and caressing each other’s bodies, sprawled on the ruffled sheets in Severus’ sunlit bedroom.

Until Harry startles and pulls away slightly.

“What time is it?”

“About half past nine,” Severus mumbles against his skin, glancing briefly at the alarm clock.

“I have work at noon,” Harry complains, but he tightens his arms around Severus, unwilling to let go.

Severus’ insides churn.

_No. Not yet. Please, please, not yet._

God, he doesn’t want Harry to leave. Ever. Now that he’s had a taste, he doesn’t want to let go.

How can he go back to living his life now? How can he go back to walking around his flat without Harry in it? To waking up in the morning without this wonderful boy in his bed?

He wants to live in this moment. He wants time to stop and everything else to disappear.

 _Stay_ , he wants to beg Harry. _There’s nothing for you out there. It’s not even real. Only you and I are real. The rest is just background, an illusion, a cardboard decor_.

Neck kisses are Harry’s thing, the surest way to make him stay, so Severus gets to work. He presses his mouth all over the boy’s beautiful throat, kissing and nipping. And the sight of the dark red mark forming under Harry’s left ear makes him hungry for more.

“Call in sick,” Severus pleads softly. “We’ll stay in bed all day.”

“I can’t…” Harry protests, arching into him. “I’ve missed too many days. They’ll sack me.”

_Make him stay. Tell him anything he wants to hear. Make him promises. Say whatever you have to say but make him stay._

_Don’t do that! Why would you do that? Let him go. What did you think was going to happen? Did you think he would stay with you forever, put his job at risk, his life on hold, just for the sake of miserable, old you?_

Severus says nothing, only rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, unwilling to meet the boy’s eyes.

Maybe he does a poor job of hiding his disappointment, or maybe it’s just Harry seeing right through him, because next second Harry is grabbing his face and kissing him deeply. And it goes on and on until finally Harry pulls away to catch his breath. But his reluctance to do so, the soft look in his gorgeous eyes, and the hint of longing Severus can see there, ignite a fire inside his chest.

 _Please don’t go_ , he wants to say. _Please don’t leave me_.

“I’ll come back tonight,” Harry mumbles against his mouth. “I get off at nine, I’ll come straight here after work. I’ll stay the night, and tomorrow… if you want. Tomorrow I’ll stay the whole day. You know what that means, right?” he finishes with a grin.

Severus feels a smile tugging at his own lips at the thought of having Harry for a whole night and day. “What does that mean?”

“Means you better go and get some condoms. And some lube would be nice, too.”

Severus laughs, kissing him again and again. “I’ll get anything you want. You can make me a list.”

“Sounds tempting,” Harry moans as Severus caresses his sides softly.

“Are you hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I’ll make you breakfast then. Do you want to shower?”

He can’t very well let Harry go out in public like this, all ravished and dishevelled.

Harry shrugs. “It’s okay. I have to go home and change anyway.”

“You can shower here. I’ll put out a towel for you,” Severus says, untangling his body from Harry’s and stumbling out of bed.

Better just get it over with. Like ripping off a band-aid.

Nonetheless, leaving this bed is like losing a limb.

“What? You’re not showering with me?” Harry asks, pouting.

Severus scoffs, slipping on a pair of old joggers. “You’ll never make it to work on time if I do.”

He does his best not to look back at Harry, who’s now sitting up in bed, as he picks up the boy’s discarded clothes from the bedroom floor. It’s a tremendous feat of self-control on his part.

Harry’s t-shirt is still lying on the bathroom floor. Severus picks it up, too, and folds it neatly with the rest of the clothes, leaving it all on the bathroom counter. He picks out a towel from the cupboard, a fluffy new one he hasn’t even used yet.

Catching a glance of his reflection in the mirror, he realises he’s been smiling unconsciously. There’s a tilt at the corner of his lips, a glow in the darkness of his eyes. He smirks back at himself, then proceeds to wash his face, hands and neck with cold water.

What does Harry see when he looks at him? Does he look better through Harry’s eyes?

He must. Everything must look more beautiful through Harry’s eyes.

Harry’s standing in the doorway now, staring at him. Severus can’t help but let his eyes wander over the boy’s naked body, feeling his own respond at once.

_For God’s sake, Severus. Control yourself!_

“You look good in these,” Harry says, stepping into the room and grabbing Severus by the waist of his old, almost threadbare joggers.

Severus grins. “Do I?”

He slips his arms around the boy, trailing fingers down his back softly.

“Mmm,” Harry hums, pressing kisses to Severus’ neck. “You should shower, too. You’re all sticky.”

“Later,” Severus insists, raking a hand through Harry’s wild hair.

“Oh, come on. Get in with me,” Harry begs with a pout. “I can blow you again if you want,” he teases. “I’ll make it even better–”

Severus laughs, freeing himself from Harry’s grasp and pushing the boy further into the room. “That’s enough. In you go.”

He can hear Harry’s annoyed groan as he shuts the bathroom door on him and all but runs into the kitchen.

He prepares breakfast, taking extra care, maybe hoping to impress Harry. Poached eggs with slices of the thick, homemade bread he got from the market, and apricot jam on the side, with cheese, cut-up fruits, and some yogurt. Unsure if Harry prefers tea or coffee in the morning, he prepares both.

He does all this while carefully ignoring the running shower, pushing away all thoughts of what is going on in there.

Soon, Harry emerges into the kitchen, dressed and wet-haired and beaming.

“Oh wow… You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” he says, glancing at the food on the table. “Just some cereal would have been okay.”

“It’s fine. I wanted to. Coffee or tea?”

“Oh, coffee, please.”

Just as Harry is about to sit, there’s the distinct ding of a cellphone and he cringes.

“Shit! I told Ron I’d text him last night if everything was okay,” he explains as he grabs his coat from the closet and fishes out his phone. “It just completely slipped my mind,” he finishes with a grin.

Severus smiles, leaning back against the counter and starting on his tea while Harry types away on his phone. He texts Ron back and forth for a minute or so, and Severus watches the grin fade progressively from his face.

When Harry finally turns back to him, he looks positively devastated.

“What’s wrong?” Severus asks at once, filled with dread.

Harry runs a hand through his damp hair and sighs heavily. “I forgot,” he says faintly. “I’m so sorry… Fuck!”

“What? What did you forget?”

Groaning plaintively, Harry walks over to him, resting his forehead on Severus’ chest.

“It was Ron’s birthday at the beginning of the month,” he explains in a rush, breath tickling Severus’ bare skin. “But everyone was too busy to celebrate, and we could never manage to get all together, so we kept pushing it back again and again and… Well, it’s tonight. I completely forgot. And I really don’t want to go, but Ron will skin me alive if I don’t show up. The old gang will be there, and Hermione’s coming from Oxford and I haven’t seen her in months…”

Harry seems so distressed that Severus can’t bring himself to act upset about this. He puts his cup down and wraps his arms around the boy, ignoring the sickening tightness in his stomach.

“Go see your friends tonight. I’ll just… I’ll get some writing done.”

Harry groans unhappily. “I’d rather stay with you. Oh, fuck!” he moans in annoyance. “I’ll just go for a little while and then I’ll come here. Would that be okay?”

_Would that be okay?_

“Whatever you want. I’ll be here.”

Harry looks up at him, biting his lip nervously. “Or you could… If you want, you could come with me?”

Severus blinks. He sure wasn’t expecting that.

“Wouldn’t you be embarrassed to show up with an old man?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

Harry looks almost offended at this. “You’re not old!”

“I beg to differ,” Severus snorts, pointing to his temples. “Look right here, I have grey hair.”

“I don’t see anything,” Harry says stubbornly. “And I’m not embarrassed. It would be perfect if you came. But you don’t have to!” he adds in a rush, nervously. “I don’t want you to be bored. You don’t have to come. That was stupid of me to ask. You probably don’t want to spend your night with a bunch of silly teenagers.”

It’s Severus’ turn to be offended. “You’re not a silly teenager.”

Harry smirks. “But my friends are. And it’ll mostly be Ron’s friends, which makes it worse. Seamus alone would mortify you.”

“I would be going for you, not for Ron’s friends.”

“You would really come?”

Yes, the thought of spending the night with a ‘bunch of silly teenagers’ isn’t the most appealing, but maybe going out is a good idea after all.

This thing they have, no matter which way Severus looks at it, it still doesn’t feel real. It still all feels like some sort of fever dream. But if others see it…

“If you really want me to go, I’ll go.”

“I really want you to,” Harry whispers, looking up at him with those goddamn eyes.

All Severus can do is slip his fingers in Harry’s damp, messy hair, and kiss the tip of his nose lightly.

“It’s settled, then. I’ll go with you.”

He’s already nervous about it, feeling the slight tremor that often turns into shivers of anxiety. But how can he say no? How can he be scared to do anything when Harry is smiling at him like this?

Harry’s smile makes Severus bloody fearless.

 _I would take the world, and break it into pieces in my hands, to see you smile watching it crumble_ , Yeats wrote.

Well, maybe that’s not entirely true. Severus is not completely fearless. There’s still something nagging at him.

“But first, I need to know,” he manages, throat suddenly parched, and he can barely look in Harry’s eyes because he fears the answer so much. “Is there anyone else? In your life?”

Harry shakes his head at once, eyes alight with the exact sort of honesty Severus so badly needs to see.

“No,” he says softly. “There was, but… not anymore.”

Severus can only nod, lest he completely ridicules himself with a brazen display of relief.

“Good, I don’t like to share,” he says instead, mockingly impassive.

Harry smirks, kissing him on the chin. “Well, neither do I.”

“There’s no one else for me either.”

_How could there be? No one else exists in this world. There’s only you._

“Good.”

“Good,” Severus echoes before untangling himself from Harry and pushing him towards the table. “Let’s eat before the eggs get cold.”

They make plans as they eat. Harry gets off work at nine, so Severus will meet him at the bookshop. Then they’ll stop by Harry’s house, so he can change out of his work clothes, and they’ll head out from there.

They’ll be meeting some of Harry’s friends at a pub yet to be determined. There’s some debate about where’s the best place to go, but Harry should know for sure by tonight. Ron and his girlfriend Hermione will be there, and some of Harry’s housemates should show up, along with some friends from Hoggarts and some of Ron’s friends from the academy. They’ll have a few drinks, catch up, and then maybe some will want to go out to a club, but maybe, Harry says with a shrug, maybe the two of them could just head back here after.

They take their time eating, maybe too much time, because then Harry has to rush out and they barely have time to kiss goodbye.

Severus watches him go until the lift doors close on him, all smiling and messy-haired and beautiful.

And then he’s all alone in the flat.

It’s so silent.

How could he stand all this silence, all this emptiness before?

He puts a record on and turns the volume up high as he clears the table and washes the dishes.

Back in the bedroom, he strips the bed and goes to throw the sheets in the laundry but then he stops. He decides he’ll throw them out instead, and he’ll buy new ones. Yes, he’ll buy new sheets, better ones.

This thing with Harry, it deserves nice sheets, expensive ones. New sheets for new memories.

He’ll get them dark.

Fuck, Harry will look gorgeous on dark sheets.

Severus showers, and as has become his routine of late, wanks off to thoughts of Harry.

Harry sucking on his fingers. Harry taking him deep in his throat. Harry fucking himself on his cock. Harry’s body shaking in his arms as he comes.

This is dangerous, Severus realises afterwards, grabbing onto the shower rod when his legs almost give out on him. Either Harry is just too much for him to handle, or he’s really getting old.

Either way, he should probably do this sitting down next time.

When he’s showered and dressed, he sits at the desk and looks over what he’s written.

It’s even better in retrospect. He’s really onto something, but it’s so very fragmented. If he could only link everything together, fit it all into a discernible storyline.

First, he needs to figure out exactly what sort of story he’s trying to tell, if story this is.

His phone dings, and he rushes over, hoping it’s Harry, but it’s a text from Ella.

 _So, how’d it go the other night?_  
_;-)_

He snorts, texting her back.

_It went well._

He hesitates for a second.

 _You were right._  
_I greatly overreacted._

Her answer is immediate.

 _So glad to hear it!!!_  
_Did you get my email?_  
_I sent you some of my stories,_  
_like we talked about._

 _Sorry, I haven’t checked._  
_I’ve been busy._

 _Bet you were._  
_:-D_

He snorts again, shaking his head. This girl’s definitely taking after Constance.

 _I meant I’ve been writing._  
_I started again._

 _That’s great news!!!_  
_I’m happy things are going_  
_so well for you!_

_Thank you._

He stops for a second, thinking this over.

Things are going so well, indeed.

He’s writing again, which he never thought possible. And he’s found Harry, which he thought even less possible.

That’s too many good things, and good things don’t usually come for free, not for Severus Prince.

 _Aunt C stopped by last night._  
_She wants to know if you’ll come to_  
_dinner again this Sunday._

Sunday. Does Harry work on Sunday? Because if not, surely Severus will have other plans.

 _I’ll have to check._  
_I might have other plans._  
_Tell her I’ll let her know._

 _Will do!_  
_Got to go now._  
_Talk to you soon._  
_And check your emails!_  
_xx_

He turns on the computer to check his emails. Among a whole bunch of unimportant messages, there’s one from Ella, one from his agent in Paris, and another one from Loïc.

He starts with Ella’s.

She’s sent him five files in attachment: three poems, a short story, and something which, based on the size of the file alone, must be a novella.

Severus reads the short story, a strangely fascinating piece about a woman meeting a mysterious man in a café. Although neither their identities, nor the reason for their meeting is revealed, the characterisation and descriptive writing is quite good. Of course, the writing is slightly juvenile still, which is to be expected since Ella is only fourteen, but it’s leagues better than anything Severus expected.

He writes back, telling her his opinions about the story, giving a few insights and promises to write again later, once he’d read her other works.

Next, he reads the message from his agent, sighing heavily with every sentence.

Gontran is a tall, very thin, very bald man in his late fifties who’s always so nervous he looks constantly in pain. As usual, he’s writing to pester Severus about his lack of productivity. At first, Severus feels tempted to tell him the good news about his recent bout of creativity but given that everything he’s come up with is in English, he decides that Gontran would probably just end up insulted instead of rejoiced. At least the message ends with a happy note. In a few months’ time, some of Severus’ poems will be featured in a much-anticipated anthology of modern French poetry, which should bring considerable income.

Loïc is writing on behalf of his mother, Madame Mirbeau, Severus’ landlady in Paris. She wants to know if he’s still planning on keeping the apartment. If he wants to transfer the lease, she’s found some potential tenants and would like to get in touch with him as soon as possible.

Severus stares at the screen for a long time.

He’d been expecting something like this when he first arrived, but with everything that’s been going on lately, it completely slipped his mind.

His apartment is in the Quartier Latin, near the Sorbonne, quite the prime spot in the city. It’s only natural for people to be interested in renting it now, seeing as it’s empty. He supposes he could just sub-lease it for now, but what would be the use in keeping it? What reason does he have to return to Paris now?

What does Paris have? Eighteen years of bad memories and its fair share of failures. At least London has Harry. That’s good enough for him.

Plus, if things keep going the way they are now, it will be more convenient for him to stay here and get in touch with his old London publisher.

He asks Loïc to tell his mother that he’s ready to give up the lease and is even willing to sell the furniture if the new tenants are interested. He will try to come to Paris as soon as convenient to collect some of his things, declutter the place, and sign the papers.

The thought of returning makes his hands shake, but it must be done.

He can’t just keep living in indecision his whole life. He needs to take control.

Later in the afternoon, Severus runs some errands.

First, he buys new, outrageously expensive sheets to replace the ones he threw out. Since he can’t decide between the dark purple and the navy blue, he gets both sets.

He’ll probably have to change them often anyway.

After that, he stops by a tailor’s and picks out a nice shirt for tonight – not too formal, but form-fitting and flattering – that he hopes Harry will like. Then he almost contemplates getting a haircut, but he remembers the way the boy’s fingers tangled in his hair when Severus sucked on his neck.

Yeah, not a chance in the world he’ll cut it now.

He stops at the drugstore on the way home, to buy condoms and lube, almost blushing like a teenager as he does so. Then he returns to the flat, where the silence is waiting for him.

Harry calls around five o’clock, while Severus is cooking pasta. He almost drops the phone in his haste to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you,” comes Harry’s reply, and the smile is so obvious in his voice that Severus can’t help but smile back.

“Hey, you,” he replies, grinning like an idiot. “Did you get to work on time?”

Harry huffs. “Barely. I only made it because I didn’t have to wait long for the train. Good thing, too, because my boss was here. Sneaky bastard’s been snooping around all day. That’s why I didn’t text you before.”

“It’s okay. Are you on break?”

“Yeah, but I only get half an hour. I’m at the coffee shop across the street. You busy?”

“No, I’m just making spaghetti,” Severus says, stirring the tomato sauce. “I was out earlier, I could have met you there.”

Harry laughs, and once again the sound of it makes Severus’ heart flutter. “So I could end up ditching work and just follow you home? Bad idea. How’s your day been?”

“Uneventful.”

“Did you get any writing done?”

“Not really… I had other things on my mind,” Severus says suggestively.

Harry chuckles. “Like what? Like me?”

“For instance.”

“Oh?”

Harry sounds amused. Severus can easily picture his face, eyes bright and smirking, or maybe biting his lip.

“And what was I doing?” the boy asks, not-so-innocently.

“Riding my cock,” Severus drawls in a lower voice, as if someone might hear him even though he’s alone in his own kitchen.

“Fuck,” Harry huffs, a soft breath.

Severus can picture him raking a hand through his hair in embarrassment, looking around maybe, to make sure no one’s noticed how flustered he suddenly is.

“You know I’m in public, right?” he whispers, but Severus can tell he’s not indifferent to the mental image offered.

He smirks. “That’s your problem, not mine. I can’t get you out of my head,” he rasps in a low voice. “How you looked this morning. And last night. God, the way you moaned last night when I was rimming you–”

“Are you wanking right now?” Harry mumbles, sounding half offended, half aroused.

“What if I am?” Severus drawls, keeping his voice serious and intense.

God, he loves getting under Harry’s skin like this.

“No, you’re not!” Harry says disbelievingly, a delicious tremor to his voice. “Are you?”

Severus laughs, dropping the pretence. “No, I’m not. I’m tempted to, though. I just might–”

“Oh, please don’t do that,” Harry begs. “I still have four hours of work left, and if I have to think of–”

“I’m sorry. I won’t,” Severus promises, laughing still.

When did he start laughing so much?

“You should be sorry,” Harry says moodily, but it sounds like he’s smiling. “Are we still on for tonight?”

Severus clears his throat. He’d almost forgotten how nervous he is about tonight. “Yes, of course.”

Harry is silent for a moment. “You don’t have to come, Severus,” he says quietly. “I mean it. If you don’t want to, I won’t be mad. I promise.”

Severus knows he means it. He can back out and it will be fine, but no matter how nervous he is about the prospect of tonight, he feels he needs to do this.

He wants to prove himself to Harry, show him he can be good company, presentable, entertaining. That he’s nothing like the miserable hermit he’s turned into lately.

Maybe he needs to prove this to himself most of all.

“It’s okay. I want to spend the evening with you, and if that means going out with your friends, then so be it. Where are we going?”

Harry sighs heavily. “Don’t know yet. Someone started a group message and they’ve been arguing all day. There’s like a hundred texts, I haven’t had time to go through it all. If they haven’t agreed on anything by tonight, I’ll suggest we just do something at my place. I could do without having to clean up after, but... it would be easier if we were to… you know… want to sneak upstairs for a while.”

Severus grins. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?”

“So much so that if it comes to that, I’ll even help you clean up.”

Harry laughs. “I’ll definitely take you up on that, but you don’t know what you’re agreeing to. We threw a party for New Year’s and the place was like a bloody war zone.”

Severus listens as Harry recalls the events of said party, drinking in his every word, smiling constantly.

He does hope they choose to stay at Grimmauld Place. A familiar setting would soothe his anxiety, even if full of strangers. He could just stay close to Harry and pull him away in a dark corner if things get too overwhelming. Then proceed to snog the living daylights out of him. And maybe more.

All too soon, Harry has to hang up and go back to work. And Severus is left to the silence again.

He sits at the table to eat, absently bringing food to his mouth, not really tasting anything. He doesn’t even know why he cooked in the first place. He’s not even hungry.

Probably because he needed to do something, anything, to keep busy.

He doesn’t finish his plate and wraps up the leftovers.

He can’t stand the fucking silence anymore.

He heads into the living-room, puts on Glass’ _Solo Piano_ and lies down on the sofa, closing his eyes.

In his dream, Severus is walking through the Louvre, along the Grande Galerie. But there’s no artwork on the walls, no statues in the alcoves, no glass cases, nothing. Just blank walls, blank floors, whiteness, and sunlight coming down on him.

And there’s music in the distance, a familiar tune, a hazy melody drifting from somewhere far-off and unreachable.

A silhouette stands at the very end of the hall, sun-drenched like all the rest.

Severus runs to it, because he knows, somehow, that whoever is there is waiting for him, has been waiting for him for a while now, and that they will leave if he doesn’t reach them soon.

It takes him barely two steps to make it across the room, and then Severus is standing before Colin.

He’s dressed in the suit they buried him in, the pale grey one with the blue lapel. But his face is the one he had when he was alive, when he was healthy.

For once, Severus looks at him and he’s not angry or sad. He’s just numb.

He looks at Colin the way a museum guard might look with boredom at a statue he’s seen a thousand times before.

But then Colin smiles. Not a sneer, not a smirk, but a sad, softened sort of smile, the likes of which was rarely seen on his face. He reaches out to touch Severus’ cheek, a light graze with his fingertips. Then the smile fades from his face, only to be replaced by a look of deep regret. An expression so foreign to him it creates lines on his face Severus has never known to exist.

Severus wants to say something. He wants to cry out in pain and laugh bitterly at the same time. But Colin doesn’t give him time to do anything.

“ _I have left you…_ ” he says then, but as always, he doesn’t end his sentence. He vanishes before he can any say more, and Severus is left on his own.

He opens his eyes. It feels like he’s only been asleep for a second, but the music has stopped.

He’s never dreamt of Colin like this before. For an instant, before he’d started talking, he almost seemed at peace. The expression on his face was so unfamiliar it’s already fading away.

His words, on the other hand, those are familiar. They are the last words Colin’s ever said to him, eight months ago.

Severus had just tucked the covers under his chin when Colin squinted at him and said his name, in the clearest voice he’d used in days. Then he’d spoken, enunciating heavily, like speaking was a chore, because everything was a chore at that point.

_I have left you…_

He’d never finished. He’d trailed off and closed his eyes, like he’d just forgotten he was speaking. Then he’d drifted off to sleep and never woken up again.

For months, Severus had wondered about those words.

Did Colin mean to tell him he’d left him something? Or did he simply know already that he was about to die, that death was so imminent maybe he thought he’d died already?

And then, as time went by and Severus mourned and mourned and fell deeper and deeper into… whatever state of depression or self-loathing he should be calling it, and after he’d dug up all the bad memories and the guilt, he’d decided he didn’t care what Colin had meant.

Subconsciously, he still wonders about it though. Apparently. Because Colin keeps saying these words over and over in his dreams.

_I have left you…_

A quick glance at the clock tells Severus it’s already past eight.

He’s supposed to meet Harry at nine! Better get a move on!

He dresses quickly, fingers shaking with nerves, and puts on the new shirt he’s bought and a nice pair of fitted black jeans.

Jeans are a rarity for him, but he’s going out to a pub with some teenagers, he figures he should play it more casual tonight. Harry probably doesn’t want to show up with someone who looks like one of his friends’ professor.

After much trouble doing so, he finds a rubber band and ties his hair back the way Harry did last night. Then when he’s semi-satisfied with his looks, he grabs his coat and is out the door.

It’s a little after nine by the time he reaches _Flourish & Blotts_, and when he suddenly hears Harry’s laughter as he rounds the corner, Severus forgets all about the dream, about Colin, and about anything Colin might have said when he was alive, or any time after, in any other dream.

This laugh. He could write a bloody thesis about this laugh. Pages and pages about all the different intonations of it, all the emotions it contains. And pages more about all the feelings it unearths in his own heart.

He finds Harry standing near the bookshop’s entrance, smoking lazily along with a girl around his age, immersed in the anecdote she’s animatedly telling him. Severus immediately recognises her as the employee who directed him to the third floor two days ago when he came to meet Harry here the first time. A pretty Asian girl with slightly-oversized glasses and an acute look to her face.

She stops her story short when she spots Severus approaching and smirks at Harry. “Your boyfriend’s here,” she tells him around a mouthful of smoke.

Harry immediately whips around, and Severus has the privilege of watching that gorgeous smile of his forming on his face.

Pages and pages on that smile.

“Hey,” Harry says, eyes softening as soon as they meet Severus’ gaze.

“Hi,” he replies.

He wants to kiss Harry so fucking desperately that it takes all he has not to just lunge at him and ravish him on a busy street corner in front of his friend.

He reaches out instead, and with his hand on Harry’s shoulder, leans in to kiss him affectionately on both cheeks, like friends do all the time in Paris.

But Severus’ gesture is slow, drawn out, to let Harry know that this is only a cover for the sake of everyone else. That it’s really a deep kiss he’s just received, disguised as something else.

“How was your day?” he asks afterwards, throat dry and hands shaking with how badly he wants to press Harry against him and never let him go.

“The longest,” Harry says tiredly, flicking his fag on the ground before putting it out with his shoe.

“He’s been fidgeting all day, grinning like an idiot,” Harry’s friend tells Severus between two drags of her own cigarette. “How many times did you get hit on today?” she asks Harry, but she turns back to Severus before he can answer. “Something about his stupid face appeals to innocent young girls eager to give out their numbers. God knows why. Beats me,” she finishes with a scowl.

“This is Dana,” Harry tells Severus with a helpless shrug. “She’s the meanest person on earth. And she’s only bitter because she likes those innocent young girls and she’s jealous they like me better. Dana, this is Severus.”

“Yeah, we’ve met,” she says with a grin before shaking Severus’ hand. “Harry showed me some of the stuff you wrote. It’s pretty good.”

“An actual compliment,” Harry marvels in exaggerated shock. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Hey, I give compliments,” Dana says defensively. “Sometimes. When they’re deserved. And I’m not mean, I’m a realist. Well, anyway. Got to go now. I’ll leave you two lovebirds. Nice to meet you, Severus.”

“See you on Sunday,” Harry calls out as she walks away.

Dana shoots him a brief look over her shoulder. “Yeah, whatever.”

Severus is intrigued now. “Do you really get hit on that much?” he asks Harry after she’s left.

Harry’s fingers graze his wrist, a discreet caress. He shrugs before grabbing the sleeve of Severus’ coat and pulling him away towards the tube.

“Come on, I have to go home and change,” he says, before leaning over briefly to speak into Severus’ ear. “Think you can help me with that?”

He feels the tip of Harry’s tongue graze at his earlobe, a fleeting instant, so brief he thinks he’s imagined it, but Harry is grinning when he pulls away.

Severus says nothing, but squeezes Harry’s forearm firmly in response.

In another reality, Severus is ravishing him against the wall of a nearby shop, in front of everyone.

He wishes there was no commute, that Harry lived right around the corner, or that he could teleport the two of them right into Grimmauld Place, in the darkened hallway where it’s safe and quiet and no one can see the filthy things they would do to each other.

They chat casually on the train, but Severus is certain that the sexual tension between them must be palpable. Surely everyone must see it.

But it’s only his mild paranoia, because no one seems to pay them any mind.

No one except a pretty college girl sitting nearby, who keeps glancing at Harry. Brief looks, like taking sips of a hot drink, trying to look her fill without being noticed. Severus can see her out of the corner of his eyes. He represses a smirk.

 _He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?_ he wants to tell her. _You can stare all you like, he’s only got eyes for me. See how they shine? That’s because he had my cock up his arse last night. And he’s thinking about having it again later tonight. You don’t stand a chance, foolish girl._

Oblivious to it all, Harry tells him that they’ll be heading to _The Three Broomsticks_ tonight. After all the fruitless debating, Ron had a fit and declared that it was his birthday and it should be his decision, and that he’d like everyone to meet at their old haunt. Severus is disappointed to hear that they won’t be staying at Harry’s place after all, but it could be worse. At least the pub is familiar ground.

The walk to Grimmauld Place is short, and Severus grabs Harry’s hand in his as soon as they round the corner onto his street, where it’s quiet and free of pedestrians. Harry’s fingers curl around his at once, easily, like it’s second nature.

Instant relief fills Severus.

This is how it’s meant to be. It doesn’t matter how nervous he is, or what happens tonight. If he’s with Harry, he’ll be okay.

Harry keeps holding his hand until he has to let it go to unlock his front door. Severus has been planning to wrap the boy in his arms the second they’re both inside, but he gets the wind knocked out of him the instant the door is closed behind them. Harry pins him against it and promptly shoves his delicious tongue down Severus’ throat.

Severus kisses back fervently.

This. This is it. Finally.

It’s as if he hasn’t taken a breath all day and has finally been offered oxygen.

Every second since Harry left his flat this morning has led to this moment. All day, Severus has been suspended in time, floating between two states, in limbo, in waiting. And now he’s returned to the world of the living.

“I love your hair like this,” Harry breathes against his lips before kissing along his jaw, nipping and sucking messily at it.

“I know,” Severus moans, letting his head fall back against the door with an audible thud when Harry starts palming at his cock through his jeans.

“Oh… um… sorry?” comes a quiet voice to their right.

Severus’ eyes snap open to see Neville standing on the stairs, looking hesitant.

“Sorry to… to interrupt…” the boy stutters.

Casually, as if there’s nothing at all embarrassing about being caught snogging and fondling shamelessly in the hallway by one of his housemates, Harry raises his dishevelled head to peer at his friend.

“Hey, Nev. You coming tonight or not?” he asks.

Neville blushes, doing his best not to look at Severus, who’s still trying to catch his breath, who’s incredibly aware that half his face is most probably visibly glistening with Harry’s spit, and who’s been subtly trying to dislodge Harry’s hand from his crotch without attracting attention to it.

“Don’t know yet,” Neville mumbles, sneaking a brief look at Severus. “Hannah’s feeling a bit under the weather, so… we’ll see. I was going to bring her some soup…” he finishes faintly, eyes darting to where Harry is still grabbing Severus’ cock through his jeans.

“That’s so considerate of you, Nev,” Harry says, bringing his attention back to Severus. “You’re such a good boyfriend,” he tells his friend, mouth pressed on Severus’ neck. “Isn’t he a good boyfriend, Severus?”

“He is,” Severus rasps, holding back laughter at the mortified look on Neville’s face as he watches Harry lick up the length of his throat.

“Did you want something, Nev?” Harry asks casually, like he’s just making himself a cup of tea and not sucking at Severus’ neck.

“Well... um… the door… I need to use it. I’m heading out,” Neville informs him, pointing behind them.

Harry chuckles. “Oh, right.”

Taking his cue, and now terribly aroused despite himself, Severus decides to play along. He grabs Harry by his coat lapel and rolls them around until he has Harry with his back pressed to the wall instead, leaving the door unobstructed. Then he buries his hands in Harry’s hair and kisses the living daylights out of him.

When they separate, Neville is still frozen on the stairs, pulling at the collar of his coat uncomfortably.

“You should try that Pho place near the tube,” Harry says breathlessly, talking to his friend but looking at Severus in open admiration.

“What?”

“For Hannah’s soup. They’ve got the best Tonkinese.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

Suddenly Neville is hurrying to the door and swinging it open.

“See you later,” Harry calls out as his friend leaves without saying goodbye. “So rude,” he adds after the door slams shut.

Severus guffaws, but next second Harry’s mouth is on his again, Harry’s body pressed hard against his, hands gripping the back of his coat.

He’s certain of it by now, that he’ll never get tired of this. He’ll never get tired of Harry’s mouth on his, Harry’s tongue stroking his, Harry’s breath on his face. It could last for a thousand years and he would never tire of it, would still want more.

He wants to live in this moment forever. He wants to die in it, so he never has to see it end.

He cups the boy’s face gently when they separate, holding it close to his own.

“We could just stay here,” Harry breathes out.

“What about your friends?”

“As you would say, fuck my friends. They’ll get over it. They’ll have fun without me.”

It’s strange, how Severus has been dying to hear these words all day, but now he’s just realised staying cooped up in here might just be the very last thing he wants. There’s a fire rushing through his veins, a sort of restlessness. He feels a strong urge to do something, to run, to yell, to fly.

He could take over the fucking world, he’s convinced of it, with Harry by his side.

“What about me?” he asks, falsely offended. “Don’t I get to have fun?”

“We’ll make our own fun,” Harry says suggestively, palming at Severus’ cock again.

Severus fakes a pout. “But what if I want to go out?”

Harry searches his face, hesitant. “You do? I thought… I felt like maybe you were just… doing what I wanted.”

Severus tilts his face softly, leans in to kiss the red mark under Harry’s ear, to suck at it.

“No, I’m selfish, you see,” he mutters. “I want to show you off, how gorgeous you are. I want them all to see that you’re with me.”

 _I want them all to see that you’re mine now_ , he wants to say. _You’re mine, aren’t you?_

But he doesn’t say that. He fears the answer. He sucks harder on Harry’s neck instead.

“Fuck,” Harry hisses, tilting his head more to give Severus better access, grabbing his head in both hands.

“Don’t mess up my hair,” Severus mumbles into his skin.

Harry moans, slipping his fingers into Severus’ hair anyway, pulling slightly. “Shut up…” he gasps. “I’ll fix it later.”

Somehow, they manage to make their way up the stairs, but it’s a good thing there’s no one else at home tonight, because Severus loses count of how many times they stop to snog against the wall.

By the time they reach Harry’s bedroom, Harry’s coat is long gone, draped over the bannister somewhere near the second-floor landing, his shirt is unbuttoned and hanging off a shoulder, and Severus has already pried open his trousers.

“I thought you wanted to go out,” Harry protests, but he makes absolutely no move to stop Severus when he starts kissing down his chest.

“You wanted me to help you change, which is what I’m doing,” Severus teases.

He kneels before Harry, kissing his hipbones gently, his stomach, his navel. Harry’s hands find his hair again, fingernails grazing his scalp softly, making Severus shiver. He pulls down Harry’s trousers, presses a kiss to Harry’s half-hard cock through his underwear. Harry moans, leaning into it, eager for more.

But Severus stops, getting to his feet with some minor complaints from his kneecaps – fuck those sly reminders that he’s now in his forties – and he pushes Harry towards the bathroom.

“What?” Harry huffs, offended. “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

Severus grins. “You’ll be fine. It’ll give you something to look forward to. Go on, clean yourself up. You’re a mess,” he finishes, pushing Harry towards the bathroom again.

“Whose fault is that?” Harry grumbles, grabbing some clothes from the dresser before heading into the bathroom.

Severus sits at the foot of the bed, where he can watch through the open door.

Harry’s violin is on the bed. The case has been cleaned of its layer of dust, and Severus runs his fingers along the lid, feeling the smooth leather. He knows from watching Harry open it that the inside of the case is soft, plush burgundy velvet, but he doesn’t dare take a peek.

It’s a strange feeling, really. He can touch Harry’s body, kiss him, fuck him. But somehow opening the case and looking at Harry’s violin without explicit permission feels like overstepping boundaries.

“When did you start playing violin?” he asks.

“When I was seven,” Harry answers distractedly.

Severus watches as he undresses fully, revealing more and more of that gorgeous body of his.

“My mother was a pianist,” he tells Harry.

“Was?”

“She died when I was eight.”

Harry stops, peering at him through the open door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” he says quietly.

“It’s okay.”

“Do you play?” Harry asks curiously.

Severus shakes his head, watching with interest as Harry pulls on a pair of clean underwear. “No. She didn’t teach me, if that’s what you mean. We didn’t have a piano when I grew up, and my father didn’t like music.”

“Didn’t like music? What sort of man doesn’t like music?”

“My father’s sort.”

“He sounds lovely,” Harry says dryly. “Is he still alive?”

“As far as I know. After my mother died, I went to live with my grandparents. They made me try piano, but I’m afraid I didn’t have my mother’s talent. They were disappointed, I could tell. My grandfather was a big music aficionado.”

Harry scoffs. “You’re lucky. I went to live with my aunt and uncle after my parents died. They didn’t give a shit about music. They didn’t really give a shit about me either.”

Severus watches in silence as Harry slips on a pair of those deliciously tight jeans of his.

Oh, how he’s looking forward to pulling them off later tonight.

He clears his throat deeply, about to ask more, when Harry steps out of the bathroom, holding two t-shirts questioningly, obviously hoping for Severus’ opinion on which one he should wear.

Severus shrugs. “You could wear a rubbish bag and still look good.”

“Oh, come on. Help me out,” Harry whines, but he’s smiling. “I like this one better,” he says, pointing to the blue one with a faded design on the front, the logo of a band. “But this one is a gift from Hermione and I know she’ll be happy if I wear it,” he explains, holding out the olive green one, which looks brand new.

“The green brings out your eyes.”

“That’s what Hermione said,” Harry snorts, putting the blue shirt away before disappearing in the bathroom again.

Severus follows him, leaning on the doorjamb to watch as he puts the shirt on. The fabric looks expensive and incredibly soft, and the neckline shows Harry’s beautiful collarbones.

This Hermione definitely has taste.

“So, how did you start playing?” Severus asks.

“It’s a long story.”

Harry’s looking at his reflection in the mirror now, running fingers through his hair. Severus isn’t sure exactly what he’s trying to accomplish by doing this, flatten it or give it more volume, but either way it looks like a lost battle.

“We’ve still got time,” Severus says.

“We started getting music lessons in school, when I was in Year 2,” Harry starts distractedly, ruffling his hair one way, then the other, with no discernible difference. “It was kids stuff, you know. Xylophones, recorders, that sort of thing. There was a piano in the classroom, that the teacher would play, but only the older kids could use it.”

He stops, contemplates his reflection for a second more, then shrugs and turns back to look at Severus directly.

“One day, Miss Stamford brought some real instruments to class. Sort of a show and tell. Mostly it was brasses. There was a trumpet and a tuba, and a clarinet, I think. But there was a violin, too.”

Harry stops for a moment, staring into space in that way people lost in a memory sometimes do. Then he snorts, shaking his head.

“It was a crappy one. The kind you can buy for like fifty pounds. But I don’t know… As soon as I saw it, it fascinated me.”

Severus smiles despite himself, imagining Harry as a child, staring in awe at the violin. The same kind of awe, maybe, with which Severus is probably looking at him most of the time.

“Miss Stamford showed us how it worked, how to hold it, what the bow was for. She played a few notes to demonstrate.” Harry laughs, shaking his head. “It sounded awful. You could tell she barely knew what she was doing. She was a pianist, not a violinist. But then she asked if someone would like to give it a try.

“Nobody gave a fuck,” he continues with a scowl. “They all wanted to blow the tuba. But I was just dying to touch that violin. It just looked so… elegant, compared to all the rest. The wood was shining softly, and the… it was just the curves of it, I don’t know. I can’t really explain, I just felt drawn to it. So, I raised my hand.”

Severus nods silently, immersed in the story, urging Harry to continue. He feels like Harry is telling him something incredibly intimate, incredibly meaningful about himself.

“I never raised my hand in class,” Harry explains quietly. “The other kids, they didn’t really like me. They would make fun of me because I had stupid glasses and I had to wear my cousin’s huge hand-me-downs. I always tried to keep quiet, not bring attention to myself. I never talked unless someone asked me a question, and I never volunteered for anything. But that day, I raised my hand. Miss Stamford looked so shocked. She asked if I was sure.” He scoffs. “I was so bloody shy she probably thought I’d faint if I had to stand in front of the class. But I just wanted it so badly. And then something strange happened.”

“What?”

“As soon as I held that violin in my hands, I knew what to do,” Harry says, eyes shining. “I mean, yeah, she’d shown us, but what I mean is, I just knew. It just felt right, you know?”

Severus nods.

“She had me play a note,” Harry recalls softly. “It was an easy one, E on the D string. But I felt it through my chest, resonating through my whole body. I wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t expecting to feel it like that. It’s like I… I’d never felt anything inside myself before. I know it sounds weird, but it’s the only way I can explain it. Just this one note. This one note, I think it changed everything. It sounded gorgeous, and I couldn’t believe I’d been the one to do that. It sounded leagues better than anything Miss Stamford had played, and she knew it. I don’t know if she was curious at that point, or if she wanted to test me, but she showed me some other notes. Then she had me play them all, one after the other. I did. And it was bloody flawless.”

Harry stops and shrugs, signalling the end of the story.

Severus smiles. “You’re bloody flawless.”

Harry snorts with laughter, grabbing Severus’ hand to pull him further into the room. “Come on, let me fix your damn hair.”

Severus lets him remove the small rubber band and run fingers through his hair, practically leaning into each touch as Harry ties his hair back neatly. He kisses Severus’ neck when he’s done, and they stand there in silence for a time, just holding each other.

Severus closes his eyes, pressing Harry gently against him.

“You know, I’m pretty sure my boss saw that hickey,” Harry says after a while. “He was more of a git than usual today.”

Severus frowns. Maybe he’s biased, but he doesn’t understand how someone can possibly dislike Harry.

“Does he really hate you that much?”

Harry sighs heavily. “He doesn’t hate me. It’s just… complicated.”

“How so?”

“It’s because I miss a lot of work,” Harry explains quietly, pressing his face into Severus’ chest. “It’s not that I don’t like my job. I love it, I really do. It’s just that sometimes… Sometimes, I just can’t find the energy to leave the house,” he admits. “And my boss doesn’t understand that. I’ve tried to explain it to him, but he thinks I’m just lazy.”

“I understand.”

“I thought you might,” Harry says faintly. “Sometimes it’s like… you and I are the same.”

_Keep it together, Severus! Don’t get all sappy and intense and ridiculous!_

“I get that feeling, too,” he utters instead.

Harry looks up at him, his eyes so clear and beautiful Severus never wants to look away from them.

“I used to take medication for it, but my therapist made me stop because it made me feel weird. And sometimes it just made things worse,” Harry reveals. “I thought–”

He stops abruptly, looking hesitant, like he shouldn’t have talked about this, but Severus only nods.

“I thought you should know,” Harry continues softly. “There are days when… when I’m so sad that I just can’t get out of bed.”

Severus wipes a tear from the corner of Harry’s eye before it can fall. “It’s okay. I’ll just stay in bed with you.”

Harry leans into his touch, and a gentle sound, like a sigh or a sob, escapes his throat.

Severus’ heart swells up.

 _I don’t care,_ he wants to say. _I don’t care about any of it. I’ll take you as you are, happy or sad. I’ll take it all. Because I love you. There, I said it. I love you already._

“Tonight… your friends… how will they react?” Severus says softly, finally voicing his main concern. “I’m… You’re… you and I’m… I’m forty years old, Harry.”

Harry takes his hand, which was still resting on the side of his face and presses a tender kiss to the inside of the wrist.

“I don’t give a fuck how old you are. And my friends won’t give you a hard time, I promise. But we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. I mean it,” he says again, gazing intently into Severus’ eyes. “I can tell them I’m not feeling well or something. I don’t care if they get mad, I just… I don’t want to force you to do anything.”

Severus shakes his head. “No, I want to go. I’ll be okay, it’s just… it’s just nerves. Meeting new people, it’s… hard for me.”

“You know,” Harry says suddenly, like he’s just had a genial idea that will fix everything. “I think I should introduce you to Ogden before we meet everyone.”

“Who’s Ogden?”

Harry grins. “You’ll see. Come with me.”

Harry leads him out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the hallway. Severus follows, intrigued, as they walk down the stairs. Harry grabs his coat, slipping it on as they go, and Severus stops by the front door, expecting them to go out, but Harry only puts on his shoes and leads him down the hall and into the kitchen instead.

“Aren’t we going out?”

“Nope.”

Severus follows him all the way around the large table and to a tiny door at the back of the room, which he hasn’t noticed the few times he was in here.

“Is this the cellar?”

“Yeah, it can get chilly down there.”

Harry unlocks the door with a small brass key, and a sudden gust of air with a dry, earthy smell hits them as soon as it opens. Harry uses the flashlight from his cellphone to shed light into the darkness beyond.

“Be careful,” he says, taking Severus’ hand again and leading the way down very narrow, very abrupt stone stairs. “Sirius fell down once and chipped a tooth.”

It gets colder and colder the deeper they go, and it’s silent as a tomb except for their footsteps. Harry’s hand grips his tighter and tighter, and Severus gets the feeling that maybe he isn’t particularly fond of this place. Either it’s the darkness or the silence, or how the narrow brick walls seem to close in on them.

Strangely enough, Severus finds it peaceful.

There’s no lights down here at all, only an old oil lamp that Harry hurriedly lights up using a box of kitchen matches left for that purpose. The orange glow spreads quickly, revealing stone alcoves carved into the walls, all of them filled with dusty bottles and decanters, and in the very back of the room – which is more of a very long corridor – a stack of huge casks.

Harry heads to a small nook right next to the stairs, where thirty or so bottles are stacked on some rickety wooden shelves bolted into the walls. A small table has been set up nearby, with three chairs and some mismatched mugs and glasses ready to use. There’s an old deck of cards and some poker chips lying around amidst shrivelled-up candy wrappers.

“I see someone’s been spending some time down here,” Severus remarks.

Harry smiles, looking much more confident now that the small space is filled with light.

“Ron and I, mostly. We like to have a drink and just talk. Sometimes Baz comes, and we play poker. I bloody suck at it. Baz always wins. He lives here, too, he’s–”

“He’s the tattoo artist, yes. I remember you told me.”

Severus approaches the shelves to look at the labels.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers, carefully picking up an unopened and dusty bottle of Dalmore scotch. “No wonder you have to keep this place locked up. This is at least fifty years old. Do you know how much this is worth?”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, Ron looked it up. He says we should just sell all this stuff and move to the Cayman Islands. Baz says why sell it when we can just drink it all? Ah, here it is.”

The bottle Harry grabs is one of the less dusty ones, and the whisky inside is a beautiful, rich amber colour. It’s about three-quarters full.

 _Ogden’s Old Whisky_ is written in gold on the faded label.

“This is Ogden,” Harry says, holding up the bottle. “We looked this one up, too. Apparently, they only made like fifty or so bottles of this, back in the early 1900’s, using an old 17th century method. This is single malt, distilled four times. It’s like 90% alcohol.”

“Good God,” Severus laughs, as Harry hands him the bottle to hold. “How do you drink this?”

“A little at a time. Ron calls it _Firewhisky_. Baz calls it _Liquid Courage_. I thought you might need a sip of courage tonight.”

“It can’t hurt.”

He watches as Harry grabs two small glasses from the table and blows on them to remove the dust.

“You said Sirius Black was your godfather, right?” Severus asks him curiously.

“Yeah.”

“How come he didn’t take you in after your parents died? You said you went to live with your aunt and uncle.”

Harry puts the glasses back down on the table and takes the bottle from Severus’ hands carefully. A moment passes before he speaks.

“He did take me in,” he says softly as he pours a small amount of whisky in each tiny glass. “He was my guardian for a month or so. But I spent a long time in the hospital after the fire, so I never really lived with him at all.”

“Why only a month?”

Severus can tell by now, from the way Harry avoids his gaze, that he’s about to hear another heartbreaking tale.

“I know you didn’t like him,” Harry says in a soft tone, as if to let Severus know he doesn’t hold this against him. “He was reckless and selfish, and he could be a bully. I get that. But it was a hard time for him, back then. Losing my parents, I think it might have been harder on him than it was on me. Did you know Sirius’ parents kicked him out of this house when he was just sixteen?”

“I didn’t know. Why would they do that?”

“They were very religious. We cleaned this place up before we settled in, and you should have seen the things we found. All sorts of crucifixes and statues. There was a room on the third floor filled with relics. Actual relics, like bits of bone and all that. And there was a huge portrait of his mother in the entrance hall, dressed up like some sort of saint. It was fucking terrifying. And Sirius was sort of… Well, he was an openly-bisexual atheist who loved weed and punk music a little too much. My grandparents took him in after. My dad was like a brother to him. So, you see, the fire… it was a lot for him. He was in a pub one night, not long after, and he’d had a lot to drink. He got in a fight. He could get rowdy when he drank. And it didn’t end well for the other bloke.”

“He went to prison,” Severus says softly. “That’s why you didn’t stay with him.”

Harry nods. “He got ten years for manslaughter. Remus wanted to take me in after that, but he wasn’t related, and he wasn’t married, and he was studying in Edinburgh at the time. So, my aunt Petunia, my mother’s sister, became my legal guardian. When Sirius got out, I was fourteen. He wanted me to go live with him, but he was an ex-con, so that wasn’t happening. He died about a year later in a motorbike accident and left me everything he had. Remus was teaching at Hoggarts by then. He helped me get emancipation.”

“Why emancipation?”

Harry shrugs.

Severus knows this shrug by now. Harry does this when he’s about to say something soul-crushing and trying to act like it doesn’t hurt him, like it’s not important.

“I never really got along with my aunt and uncle, even at the beginning. It got worse the more I grew up, and things just… went sour at some point. I couldn’t stay there anymore, I had to leave. They didn’t object. I was lucky to have this place then. And my parents left me some money. It’s not much, but it’s enough to rely on. I’m lucky.”

“You’re lucky?” Severus whispers, shaking his head.

“Luckier than some,” Harry insists, looking quite wise for his age. But there’s this shielded air about him, the way he raises his chin suddenly, like he’s daring Severus to pity him.

“But you’re all alone,” Severus says softly. “You’re nineteen and you have no one.”

“I have Remus. We argue a lot, but he’s there. And I have my friends. They’re the best friends in the world, you’ll see.”

“And you have me. You have me. Now. Also…”

Harry leans in, tilting his head up, grazing his lips against Severus’ in a soft, barely-there kiss. The glow from the lamp casts dancing lights on his face, and in this moment, he looks so fucking beautiful Severus wants to weep.

“I’m luckier than I thought,” Harry mumbles, his breath soft and warm.

 _I’ll protect you_ , Severus wants to say. _Life can try to hurt you, but from now on I’ll be standing in the way. It’ll have to go through me first._

Instead he breaches the distance between their lips – there’s barely any at all – and he tries to put all these unsaid words into a kiss, to fill it with everything he feels, if only to try and soothe the quivering thing in his chest, the thing that’s craving constantly, trembling and restless, longing for Harry’s lips, Harry’s skin. His eyes. His existence.

Harry melts into him, grasping at him, pulling him closer.

_Please, God, let him feel this thing, too._

_Please don’t let this be something I’m imagining._

From the way Harry responds, the way he kisses him so deeply, maybe he does feel it, too. Maybe he’s hiding it the rest of the time, when they’re not kissing, when Severus can read his face, look into his eyes.

As clear and beautiful as they are, Harry’s eyes are bottomless pools. Anything could be hiding in there. And Severus has come to suspect that the emotions Harry shows are but a fraction of what he really feels.

Does Harry know it’s the same for him?

 _Sometimes I feel like you and I are the same_ , he’s said earlier.

Yes, maybe he can feel it too, and maybe it scares him, this thing they have. And that’s why he’s trying to hide it, or to ignore it, if only to protect himself. Just like Severus is ignoring it most of the time, pushing it away. Because he’s afraid, too.

Harry is cleverer than he lets on, and he’s a good liar, an even better one than Severus. But Severus is slowly learning the signs, like teaching himself a new language by first studying the alphabet.

Severus presses him into the old table, making it tilt dangerously, almost falling over. Harry startles, gasping into his mouth, grabbing onto Severus’ waist for support before pulling away, laughing into his neck.

“Come on,” Harry says, breathless, cheeks flushed. “Let’s drink our courage and get out of here. I’ve got like four missed calls from Hermione already.”

“I’m a little scared of this,” Severus admits, eyeing the glass Harry’s handing him warily. “And I’m not very fond of cold whisky.”

Harry laughs, raising his glass. “It’ll be fine. _Salute!_ ” he announces before chugging.

Severus does the same.

For approximately half a second, he thinks this isn’t so bad. It’s good whisky, rich and flavourful. And then the alcohol hits him like an uppercut. His jaw clenches, his whole face flaring up like it’s been nailed through. The liquid is ice-cold from being kept in the cellar, and it makes it worse somehow, freezing and burning all at once.

He represses a choke, swallowing as fast as he can. It’s like lava running down his throat, travelling through his ribcage. The warmth spreads around his heart, and for another half second or so, he thinks he’s about to have a stroke. But then the pain stops, fading away, and only the warmth remains.

“Bloody hell,” he chokes out, clutching at his throat, where the burning has yet to subside.

Harry smirks knowingly. Severus was expecting taunting on his part, but he doesn’t say anything. He cringes, lips pursed, eyes watering, and Severus realises he still hasn’t swallowed his whisky, is holding it in his mouth, and it looks painful.

“What are you doing?” Severus laughs, cupping his face with some concern.

Harry lunges, cutting him off before he can say any more, kissing him hard.

Severus lets out a startled gasp, and as soon as his lips open, Harry’s whisky floods into his mouth, warm and burning in a completely different way.

It’s so amazingly erotic that Severus is hard in an instant. And this time, when he presses Harry into the table, he doesn’t care that the whole thing shudders under their weight and that a mug clatters to the floor.

This is the Harry Severus likes the most. The playful, daring Harry. The one who’s almost vicious in his kisses, sucking and licking and biting, hands clawing and pulling at his hair. This is the one who plays violin in the middle of the night. The one who gropes him on the train. The one who uses teeth when sucking cock.

Of course, Severus loves all the different sides of Harry. He would take any one of them any day, it doesn’t matter. But this one, this one is quite something.

They kiss and kiss, their erratic breaths the only sounds in the tomb-like silence of the cellar. Severus licks into Harry’s mouth unrestrained, his hands finding their way into tousled hair, their new favourite place. Harry’s hands are gripping the front of his coat tightly, pulling and pulling, closer and closer. As if he fears Severus will disappear.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Severus asks against Harry’s lips when, finally, he manages to tear himself away.

“You said you didn’t like cold whisky,” Harry says with a grin, looking as breathless and as aroused as Severus feels. “I thought I’d warm it up for you.”

Severus lets out a laugh, dry and choked, stifled by the burning in his throat and the haziness of the whisky already wafting through his head.

“You shouldn’t do things like that when we have somewhere to go.”

“Oh, you liked that, did you?” Harry teases, kissing the side of his neck. “Want to do it again?”

“I want to fuck you on this table is what I want,” Severus whispers, as if anyone else can hear.

Harry chuckles, nipping at his neck still. “Mmmm. I’ll take a rain check on that, please. Though maybe not on this table. I think the one in your flat looks sturdy enough.”

Severus is so hard it’s painful. “Shut your mouth,” he moans, trailing his lips along Harry’s cheek, mouth open but not quite kissing.

“Want me to suck you off?” Harry offers softly, sounding almost guilty for the trouble he’s causing. “I wouldn’t want you to suffer all night.”

Severus pulls away, straightening up. His head is hazy, the warmth spreading all through his chest.

“I’ll suffer all night either way,” he rasps reproachfully.

Harry pouts, and it’s almost adorable. “You sure? I can make it quick.”

“It’s okay. Let’s just get going already.”

It’s lucky Severus’ overcoat covers his mid-section, this way no one can tell how turned on he is as they walk to the tube and take the train to Westminster. He stares at a little old lady sitting nearby, imagining her naked in all sorts of filthy positions, which gets rid of his erection quickly enough. Of course, Harry’s noticed and can barely contain his laughter through the whole thing. It ends with the lady changing seats, looking uncomfortable under Severus’ dark stare.

Harry’s still laughing when they emerge onto the street, bumping his shoulder with Severus’ every now and then, playfully, as they walk side by side towards the pub.

Severus’ head feels light and his legs like cotton. Two sips of whisky were enough, given how strong the stuff is, and given the fact that he’s barely slept eight hours in the last four days. He’ll have to be careful tonight and not drink too much, lest he embarrasses himself, or Harry, in front of his friends.

“Ogden working wonders?” Harry asks, as if reading his thoughts, slipping his hand into Severus’ for a few seconds before letting go.

“I think if I’d had any more you’d have to–”

“HARRRRYYYY!” a shrill cry interrupts him.

Suddenly Harry is taking off and running the last few yards to the pub, where he collides with a short, dark-skinned young woman with thick, curly hair. She squeals in delight as he hugs her tightly.

When Severus reaches them, she’s holding Harry’s face in her hands and staring at him closely.

“Oh, I’m so happy to see you!” she exclaims. “I’ve missed you so much! How are you? Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing great,” Harry says honestly, beaming at her.

“Look at you!” she gushes, squeezing his face. “You look so good! It’s been so long I almost forgot how gorgeous you are!”

Harry bats her hands away. “Stop it, Herman! You’re embarrassing me,” he whines, annoyed, but he’s still smiling so brightly it could light up the whole street.

“Oh, Harriet, you know I can’t help–”

She stops, gasping when she catches sight of Severus.

Harry grins at her reaction and pulls Severus closer. “I hope Ronda won’t mind I brought someone.”

“Ronda’s already on her third pint, I don’t think she’ll mind,” Hermione says, her eyes never leaving Severus. “Oh my god, I can’t even… I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. Prince. I… I don’t know what to say, I’m...”

Severus smiles, shaking her hand. “Hermione, I presume. It’s lovely to meet you. Call me Severus, please.”

Hermione beams at him, and she seems about to say something when suddenly she rounds on Harry and punches him sharply in the shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” she hisses. “I would have brought something for him to sign!”

“Relax, Herman!” he laughs, rubbing his shoulder. “You’ll see him again. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of occasions for him to sign whatever you want.”

Severus’ heart soars at these words.

Plenty of occasions. Plenty. All the time in the world.

Yes, please, let there be plenty of occasions to be a part of Harry’s life.

“Well, at least now I know what took you so long,” Hermione says with a knowing smile.

Harry blushes, choosing to ignore her comment. “We had some _Firewhisky_ before we left. Severus needed a little bit of courage.”

Hermione scoffs. “To face this lot, I reckon. Seamus came,” she announces sombrely. “I was hoping he’d get stuck in Dublin, but somehow he fucking made it.”

“Oh, she’s cussing,” Harry tells Severus with a cringe. “This is serious.”

“And to make matters worse, Tamlyn’s horrible friend is here,” Hermione adds moodily. “The one with the purple hair.”

Harry’s grin fades completely upon hearing this. “What? Clem is here?” he asks angrily.

It’s Hermione’s turn to cringe. “Yeah, I thought you’d react like that.”

“Bloody fucking hell.” Harry sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “No wonder you’re standing out here all by yourself!”

“I’m supposed to be calling to see what’s keeping you. And I did, quite a few times,” she says accusingly. “But I really just wanted to get away for a little bit. Give me a cigarette! You have some, don’t you?”

She starts pulling at his coat as if to search his pockets herself.

“Back off!” Harry laughs, batting her hands away and taking the pack out. “You want one, Sev?”

Severus shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

His face feels warm suddenly, not completely from the whisky.

 _Sev_ , Harry’s just called him.

Only his family has ever called him that. No one else. Not even his friends. Not even Colin.

He watches as Harry brings three cigarettes to his lips and lights them all, one after the other, before handing one to each of them. Severus represses a choke on the first drag. It’s been years since he’s smoked, even socially. It must go back to his teenage years.

How fitting that he should take it up again tonight with teenagers.

“Oh, I really needed this,” Hermione sighs after a long drag.

“She smokes when she’s stressed,” Harry explains.

“Don’t tell Ron!” she warns sharply. “And stay close to me in there. That way if he smells it on me, I can just say it’s you.”

“Great. I don’t feel used at all,” Harry mumbles around his fag, smiling still.

Once more, Severus can’t help but stare at him in fascination as Harry inhales and exhales, his beautiful lips furling and unfurling around the smoke. Harry catches him staring and smiles softly, taking his hand and squeezing it in a soothing, fleeting gesture.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Severus smiles back, nodding in reassurance.

When they turn back to Hermione, she’s looking at the two of them with a fond look on her face.

“You look good together. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my favourite person,” she says, pointing at Harry, “and I think I’m a little bit in love with you,” she finishes, gesturing at Severus.

“I’m your favourite person?” Harry exclaims, mildly shocked. “Ron will be heartbroken when he finds out!”

“Well, tonight you are,” she scowls. “You know how he gets when he drinks. It’s like he regresses into a bratty teenager and all my hard work to turn him into a suitable boyfriend goes down the drain.”

“Well, especially if Seamus is here. Don’t worry, Herman,” he adds, patting her cheek affectionately. “We’ll get through this.”

“What’s that Herman-Harriet-Ronda thing about?” Severus asks, frowning.

Harry snorts. “It’s just an old joke. Back at Hoggarts, our friend Luna used to draw those little comics where everyone was the opposite gender. They were hilarious.”

At that moment, a girl comes out of the pub. She’s tall and beautiful, with long dark hair, heavy eye makeup, and something of a 1950’s pinup girl. Her features are sharp and striking.

“Well, look who finally got here,” she says smoothly as she reaches them, taking a pack of cigarettes out of her coat pocket and fishing out one. “You took your sweet time,” she tells Harry before turning to Severus. “Is that the dark and handsome poet I heard about?”

“This is Severus,” Harry introduces. “And this is Tamlyn, one of my housemates.”

“Nice to meet you,” Severus says, shaking her hand, which has long, sharply-trimmed neon pink nails.

“Pleasure is all mine.” She winks before turning back to Harry. “I like your new beau,” she says bluntly. “Very sophisticated. Much better than that other one. I hated that little shit.”

Harry sighs heavily. “Okay, trivialities and introductions aside, why the fuck did you bring Clem here for?”

Tamlyn cringes, suddenly apologetic. “I’m sorry, okay? We’ve had a rough day at work and she heard me making plans on the phone, and she said she could use a drink, and I couldn’t find a reason to say no.”

“How about because we don’t like her?” Hermione suggests, looking irritated.

Harry scoffs. “How about because she’s a cunt?”

Severus chuckles, half shocked, half amused.

“She is!” Harry protests. “I’m serious. She’s sexually harassing me! Every time I see her! And she tried to grab my cock at New Year’s!”

“It was a misunderstanding!” Tamlyn insists. “She was drunk, and she’d just been dumped, and you told her you liked her hair. And she didn’t know you were gay–”

“That’s not an excuse! I’m sure straight guys wouldn’t like random girls grabbing their cocks either!”

Tamlyn snorts. “I think a lot of them wouldn’t mind, actually.”

While they’re busy arguing, Hermione puts a hand on Severus’ elbow and leads him a little to the side, where they can speak privately.

“How is Harry doing?” she asks softly. “Is he okay? He always tells me he’s okay even when he isn’t.”

“He seems to be. But I can’t really say for sure. We only met last week,” Severus admits.

Hermione looks back at Harry, who’s still arguing with Tamlyn. Severus follows her gaze.

“He seems to be doing fine,” she says with a sigh. “Has he heard from Draco?”

“Draco?”

He’s heard the name before. Lupin’s mentioned him that first night, right before he left with Harry.

“His… well, his ex. I suppose you could call him that,” Hermione explains slowly, probably afraid she might be entering forbidden territory. “He hasn’t, then?”

“I wouldn’t know. Not that I know of.”

She sighs in something like relief, smiles slightly. “Good, then. Let’s hope so. Draco is bad business.”

He knows he shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t talk about these things with Harry’s friends, he should ask Harry directly or wait until Harry decides to tell him, but his curiosity is piqued, and his head is still hazy from the whisky. His tongue is eager to ask.

“Were they together long?”

Hermione shrugs. “It’s hard to say. A few months, maybe. But they’ve been on and off for years. This is the first time Harry’s been the one to end it, though. Three weeks ago, I think. Hasn’t he told you about that?”

Severus shakes his head and looks away along the street, suddenly ashamed. “No, this is rather new. I probably shouldn’t have asked.”

“Well, I was the one who brought it up. I’m sorry for the interrogation, but I’m away a lot, and I barely see Harry anymore. And he doesn’t always text me back. I worry. And I know Ron’s been so busy lately.”

“He wasn’t too busy to give me a talking to after I spent the night.”

Hermione hides her face in her hands, half laughing, half mortified. “I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be. It’s understandable. He doesn’t know me. And I’m… older.”

Hermione shakes her head, smiling a little. “That doesn’t mean anything. It’s obvious you care about Harry. Very much.”

“Is it?”

“Well, yes. You look at him like he’s magic.”

Severus rubs at his face in embarrassment and she laughs, hugging his arm affectionately.

“Oi, Herman!” Harry calls out. “What are you trying to pull over there?” he yells, pretending to be upset with their closeness, but Severus can tell he’s delighted that the two of them are getting along.

“Come on, you guys!” Tamlyn says, pulling on Harry’s sleeve to coax him into the pub. “It’ll be alright, come on,” she tells Harry. “She’s pissed already. She won’t stay much longer. That Seamus bloke has been buying her shots all night. And I promise to defend your honour if she gets handsy.”

They all snuff out their cigarettes and go in.

Severus has never been to _The Three Broomstick_ s this late at night, not even as a teenager. The pub is packed, even more so than during the afternoon, but with a different, older crowd. There are kids Harry’s age, and some older, in their late twenties or thirties, and there’s even a table of old folks having pints in the back.

Harry’s friends are all seated in a corner of the pub, near the window, where they’ve pushed several tables together.

There’s seven of them. Severus spots Ron first. He’s the tallest, and his very red hair glows golden under the dimmed lights. He also recognises one of Harry’s housemates, the one who once peered down at him from the first floor of Grimmauld Place, a pretty girl with long strawberry blonde hair. The rest of them are strangers.

“Harry!” they all exclaim when they notice the four of them.

Immediately, Ron is on his feet, grabbing his friend in a tight embrace.

“I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me, mate!” he exclaims loudly.

Harry laughs, returning the hug, patting his friend on the back. “I would never dare! Happy belated birthday, Ronda!”

Ron grins at the nickname and pulls away, ruffling Harry’s hair affectionately. He looks good tonight, in a freshly-pressed shirt and a nice pair of trousers. Severus suspects Hermione’s probably chosen his clothes for him. It’s also obvious he’s had quite a lot to drink already.

“And you brought Severus! Brilliant!” Ron exclaims when he spots him, like this is the best thing that could have possibly happened tonight.

The next thing Severus knows, Harry’s friend is grabbing him and wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Severus, mate! So glad you came!” Ron says very loudly before wrapping a friendly arm around his shoulders and turning to the others. “Guys, this is Severus! He’s with Harry now!” he announces proudly, like the credit is all his. Like he’s presenting them with is newest accomplishment.

They all smile and wave, greeting him politely. They seem a little curious, but no one looks surprised or taken aback at all. He’s been fearing the weird looks and judgmental comments, but they all seem completely unfazed that their friend is dating someone possibly twice his age.

“What?” someone exclaims then, almost offended.

Severus’ eyes immediately find the one who spoke. A short, busty girl with bright red lipstick and violently purple hair cut in a short bob. She’s been sucking at a sugary-looking drink through a straw.

This must be Tamlyn’s ‘horrible friend’ Clem.

“Are you not with Bronco anymore?” she asks Harry, very loudly, with some obvious difficulty enunciating the words.

“Draco,” Harry says dryly. “And no, I’m not.”

“And thank god for that,” Tamlyn says quietly, draping her coat on the back of a chair and sitting down next to her friend with a resigned sigh.

“But why?” Clem asks, genuinely confused. “He was so fit! You were perfect together!” Then she looks straight at Severus, and she says, very seriously, “I saw them snogging once, and I swear I got wet to my knickers.”

Everyone groans in disgust except a sandy-haired boy with a crew cut and a square jaw, who bursts out laughing. Clem’s spoken so loudly there’s silence from some of the nearby tables for a few seconds.

Harry looks thoroughly annoyed, bordering on furious, his lips a thin, angry line, but he doesn’t say anything. Severus takes his hand and squeezes tightly.

“Here, guys,” Hermione says suddenly. “Why don’t you come and sit next to me?”

She leads the two of them to the opposite side of the table, away from Clem, and fetches two empty chairs from a nearby table.

“I’m getting a drink,” Harry mumbles, shrugging off his coat. “Anyone want something?” he asks, directing the question at Severus and Hermione.

“Oh, a cocktail for me, please,” Hermione tells him. “Anything fruity.”

“Just a beer,” Severus says when Harry turns to him. “Something small, for now.”

Harry nods, squeezing his hand one last time before walking away towards the bar, making his way through the crowd with some difficulty.

“That’s the shirt I got him for Christmas!” Hermione exclaims in delight as she watches Harry go. “Severus, let me introduce you to everyone. This is Dean,” she says, pointing to a handsome black young man dressed like he’s just stopped by the pub straight from a very posh job. “And that’s Seamus.” She points to the square-jawed one sitting next to Ron, the one who laughed at the lewd comment earlier. “They used to share a dorm with Harry, Ron, and Neville at Hoggarts,” she adds, explaining their presence tonight.

“Nice to meet you, Severus,” Dean says, reaching across the table to shake his hand.

“How you doing, mate?” Seamus says with a nod.

“And these guys are Laura and David.” Hermione indicates two young people sitting together on Ron’s other side. “They’re at the academy with Ron.”

They both nod at him with an air of camaraderie that tells him that they, too, like him, are somewhat surrounded by strangers.

“And you’ve already met Tamlyn and Kim–”

“Actually, we haven’t officially met!” Kim, the blonde girl, Harry’s other housemate, interrupts.

She reaches over to shake his hand with a knowing grin that makes Severus suspect she might have heard some things the other night.

“Oh! You’re the poet, aren’t you?” Clem suddenly exclaims from across the table, like she’s just caught on to what’s happening around her. “You know, I’ve been thinking about writing a poem myself! I’m wondering what you’d think–”

“Oh god, Clem, shut up,” Tamlyn groans, rubbing at her face in annoyance.

“No, no, no!” Clem shushes with an air of importance. “Listen!”

She pauses for effect, seems to forget what she was about to say for a time, then suddenly remembers.

“It’s gonna be called… _An Ode… to Harry’s skinny jeans_!”

Despite the general annoyance and dislike, there’s a rising of chuckles around the table, and Severus can’t help but grin. Clem is looking at him intently, awaiting his thoughts.

“I think it sounds brilliant,” he says, half exasperated.

“See! See!” Clem exclaims. “I knew I was onto something!”

Harry’s come back to the table, holding three drinks precariously in his hands.

“What are you all laughing about?” he asks, handing Hermione a pink drink with a cherry poking out, and Severus a half-pint of ale, before settling down with the Guinness he’s brought for himself.

“We’re talking about your bum!” Clem announces proudly, causing another bout of laughter.

“Clem, I think it’s time we called you a cab, don’t you think?” Tamlyn says suddenly, grabbing her friend and pulling her to her feet with some difficulty.

“But why? I want to go dancing with your friends!”

“I don’t think you’ll dance tonight. Come on.”

Dean stands up to help. “Let me give you a hand.”

A discernible feeling of relief fills the table as they lead Clem away, but Hermione’s still looking at Seamus with some contempt as he drunkenly exchanges dirty limericks with Ron. Judging from her irritated sighs, they’ve been engaged in this battle for most of the night.

“Oh, I’ve got a good one! Listen, listen! _There once was a girl named Dot, who lived off of pig shit and snot. When she ran out of these, she ate the green cheese that she grew on the sides of her twat!_ ”

Both Ron and Seamus almost piss themselves with laughter, while Harry groans in disgust, telling them off but half laughing while doing so.

“Did you know Harry plays violin?” Hermione asks Severus, speaking close to his ear to be heard above the noise. “He’s brilliant at it.”

Severus nods, busy taking a long sip of beer. “Yes, he’s very good,” he says afterwards.

Hermione frowns. “You heard him play? Recently?”

“We all heard him play,” Kim chuckles.

“What? When?” Hermione asks, stunned.

“Just the other day–”

“In the middle of the night!” Ron intervenes, picking up on the conversation. “Like a bloody lunatic!”

Hermione gapes at them all for a second, before rounding on Ron. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she questions angrily.

He shrugs. “Forgot, I guess.”

But Hermione’s already ignoring him and reaching across Severus to grab Harry’s arm in what looks like a painful grip. “You’re playing again?” she asks intently.

Harry shakes his head. “It’s nothing, really. It was just for Sev. It wasn’t even that good–”

“No, no, it was good,” Kim tells Hermione. “It was fucking good. But we barely got to hear anything because that one had a fit,” she adds, jerking her head towards Ron.

“Are you taking it up again?” Hermione asks Harry, her brown eyes lighting up with joy. “There’s still time to audition for the Royal Academy for the fall. At least I think so. Anyway, I’m sure they’d make an exception if they heard you–”

“Hermione, stop it,” Harry says softly, not quite looking a her. “I told you it was nothing.”

Severus rubs at Harry’s thigh under the table, soothingly. Harry doesn’t say anything but throws him a grateful look and next second his hand joins Severus’ under the table, their fingers intertwining naturally.

“Well, one thing out of the way,” Tamlyn announces as she and Dean return, without Clem, and take their seats.

“Is Baz not coming tonight?” Harry asks her, taking the opportunity to change the subject.

“He’s working on a big piece, said maybe he’ll meet up with us later,” she says with a shrug. “We’ve only been planning this for like a month,” she adds somewhat bitterly.

“You’d think he’d know to take tonight off, but apparently not.”

“Talking about no-shows, where the fuck is Nev?” Seamus asks.

“He said Hannah’s sick and he’s not sure they’re coming,” Harry explains.

“Harry,” Kim says suddenly, “I meant to ask, what’s happening with the room? Have you got anyone yet?”

Ron gasps, as if he’s just remembered something vital, and cuts Harry off before he can answer. “I know Ginny texted you!” he shouts accusingly.

Harry lets out a heavy sigh. “Ron, listen–”

But Ron is already rounding on him in desperation. “Come on, mate! I don’t want my little sister living with us! She’ll snitch on me to Mum! You know how she is!”

“Ginny won’t snitch on you, Ronald!” Hermione says moodily. “She’s not twelve years old anymore! Why wouldn’t Harry offer her the room? You know how expensive lodging is in London.”

“Exactly,” Harry says. “Plus, I’d rather have someone we know living with us rather than have to interview twenty strangers or end up with another Max.”

There’s a collective groan across the table from all the housemates, and they quickly start talking all over one another about the terrible things their former housemate on the second floor did. They’d apparently kicked him out sometime before Christmas.

“He once told me he didn’t care what a girl looked like as long as she’s got a hole somewhere for him to shove into,” Kim says.

“He’d clip his toenails everywhere!” Tamlyn adds.

“He hit on my mum once!” Ron announces, deeply offended.

“One time he got home in the middle of the night and decided to make burgers, but he was so pissed he forgot how cooking works and he just put the meat patty directly on the stove burner without a pan,” Harry tells Severus. “Nearly set the bloody place on fire.”

“Oh my God, the smell…” Kim mumbles, looking almost traumatised. “I can still remember the smell.”

“I can still fucking taste it,” Ron says dryly.

They talk about this Max for a while, sharing various anecdotes that have Severus laughing so hard his face hurts and he’s constantly wiping his eyes. He doubts he’s ever laughed so much in his life before.

It seems ridiculous now that he’s ever dreaded this evening, that he even feared he would feel left out or be disliked. Instead, Harry’s friends make him feel included, important, and it doesn’t seem like they’re even trying. It just comes naturally to them. They make Severus feel liked and young and alive.

He’s starting to think that maybe Harry was right. They might just be the best friends in the world.

The conversation flows easily from one subject to another, from things that happened at Grimmauld, to people they know, happenings from work, and inevitably, to their personal lives. Every now and then, someone heads to the bar to get drinks.

By the time it’s almost midnight, Harry’s face is flushed and there’s a permanent grin on his face. Severus, who’s been pacing himself since the whisky, feels pleasantly relaxed and perfectly happy.

“Oi, Harry!” Ron exclaims suddenly. “Tell them what happened with that bloke Tam tried to set you up with last month! Listen to that, guys! It’s hilarious!”

From the reactions across the table, Severus guesses most of them, at least Hermione and the housemates, have heard this story before, but they all lean in anyways, impatiently waiting for Harry to start talking. Tamlyn puts her head in her hands and laughs quietly in embarrassment.

Harry shakes his head in reticence, but he seems to relish the attention and clears his throat for effect.

“His name is Francis,” he starts. “He works with Tam at the café. We had two dates, it was going well, then I asked if he wanted to go to lunch, and suddenly he was like, _Look, I don’t think s’gonna work out between us_ ,” he announces in an hilariously thick Yorkshire accent that makes everyone crack up. “So, I was like, _Okay, why not?_ And he said, _Well, don’t get me wrong, you’re super smart, very interesting, and you’re really, really fit, right_ …”

Harry pauses, then smirks in a mix of annoyance and amusement as he says it, “ _but your eyes are enormous, and it just freaks me the fuck out_.”

Everyone bursts out laughing and Seamus almost spits his drink on the table.

“Ah, mate! It gets me every time!” Ron gasps in between fits of laughter.

“That’s so harsh!” Dean exclaims.

“Oh my god! You sounded exactly like him!” Tamlyn shouts in disbelief.

Severus presses his forehead into Harry’s shoulder and laughs into his shirt. “That’s rubbish,” he tells Harry in reassurance.

“That’s horrible!” Hermione says, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright from the drinks.

“I’ve seen that guy!” Kim cries out indignantly. “He’s one to talk! His mouth is like 90% gums! It’s terrifying!”

Harry is looking at Severus now, leaning heavily against him with this inebriated air that makes his eyes shine brighter, and a comfortable, carefree look to him despite the way the night started.

Whenever Severus looks at him, everything else seems to just fade away.

God, he can’t wait for the two of them to be alone. The things Severus wants to do to him…

“Are you tired?” he asks. “Do you want to go soon?”

“You’re not going anywhere!” Ron exclaims, having overheard. “We’re going out dancing!”

“Let’s got to _Zonko’s_!” Hermione exclaims.

“Fuck _Zonko’s_!” Ron slurs loudly. “ _Zonko’s_ sucks! Let’s got to _Morsmordre_!”

“The line’s too long at _Morsmordre_ ,” Kim complains.

“The music’s better at _Zonko’s_ ,” Dean tells them. “Can’t believe the shit they play at _Morsmordre_ lately.”

“ _Morsmordre’s_ overrated,” Hermione says, glancing subtly at Harry. “Plus, it’s like twice the price of _Zonko’s_.”

“Like Kim said, the line’s too long. We’ll never get in,” Tamlyn adds. “We’ll just end up wasting the whole night standing out on the street.”

“Harry can get us in! Can’t you, Harry?” Ron says with a lazy wave of his hand.

Harry scoffs. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“See? He says he can’t. Let’s just go to _Zonko’s_ ,” Hermione says. “We’ll have fun anyway. We always do.”

“You all have good arguments, but it’s my belated birthday and I want to go to _Morsmordre_ , so fuck _Zonko’s_!” Ron announces moodily.

Everyone turns to Harry, who’s still leaning on Severus’ shoulder.

“I don’t even know if I can go there anymore.”

“Don’t you have a VIP card?” Ron insists.

“Yeah, but they might tell me to fuck off anyway–”

“They can’t just not let you in! They can’t!” Ron insists, looking offended. “Come on! You always said you’d take me! I want to go tonight!”

Harry grimaces. “Fine!” he says moodily. “We’ll go. I can try to get us all in, but don’t count on it.”

 

* * *

 

Harry’s friends stand outside the pub for some time, making plans, calling up people they know and who would maybe want to join them.

Although reticent to go to this club at first, the girls now seem excited at the prospect. Harry’s been many times, although none of his friends have. From what Severus understands, it’s somewhat of an exclusive place.

“I used to go to _Morsmordre_ all the time with Draco, my ex,” Harry explains as they stand to the side and he lights up two cigarettes for them. “His dad is loaded and owns like half the place, so everyone there treats him like royalty. He fucking loves that.”

Harry scoffs, taking a long drag before exhaling the smoke slowly.

“We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms,” he adds.

“And you don’t want to go because you think he might be there tonight,” Severus summarises, the cold night air clearing up his head now, making everything less foggy.

Harry shrugs. “Doesn’t matter even if he is,” he mumbles. “I don’t think he’ll come talk to me. Not with Ron and Hermione there. He hates them. He hates all my friends. And anyway, I know for a fact that he’s already got someone else. He had someone else even when we were still together. I was never enough for him.”

The street corner they’re standing on, away from the pub entrance, is quiet and dark. Severus pulls him closer and hugs him tightly.

“Fuck that,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, lips grazing it. “Fuck him. You’re enough. You have no idea.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, he just kisses Severus on the neck and hugs even tighter, fingers gripping the back of his coat.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Severus adds.

Harry sighs, finally pulling away and flicking the ashes from his fag onto the ground. “Honestly, I’d rather go for pizza. I’m fucking starving. But it’s okay, I don’t want to ruin their night.”

Severus shakes his head, already missing the warm of Harry’s body. “You wouldn’t be ruining anything. They could go to that other club.”

“They could. But Ron wants to go to _Morsmordre_ , and I owe him one. I wouldn’t have you if it wasn’t for him. If he hadn’t pushed me… We sort of owe him one, don’t we?”

Harry’s smirking at him, eyes bright even in the darkness, and Severus smiles back though his heart is clenching.

God, he’d rather just go home, lay Harry down on his bed and lick his whole body from head to toe.

“It’s like I said,” Harry continues with a shrug, “they might not even let me in. Maybe Draco’s told them to bar me. So, we’ll just go, and I’ll give it a try. If we can’t get in, we’ll just go home. If we can, then we grab a few drinks, maybe dance a little, and then we go home, and the others can do whatever the fuck they want.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

They rejoin the others. Ron’s friends from the academy have decided to head home. Dean says he’d love to go out but needs to stop by work in the morning even though it’s Saturday. Seamus also takes his leave – he’s got a train to catch early, back to Dublin. And after arguing with her boyfriend on the phone for some time, Tamlyn announces that Baz is too tired and probably won’t show up at all.

This leaves only Severus, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Tamlyn, and Kim.

By the time they’re ready to go, they have to hurry to catch the last train. Ron is running ahead, howling drunkenly into the night, while Hermione yells at him to shut up, that he’ll get them in trouble, but she’s laughing so hard she can barely speak.

Kim takes a tumble tripping on a piece of sidewalk, and Severus stops to help her up, but she tells him with a grin that it’s okay, that she’s not hurt, that she’s so drunk she can’t feel anything.

The train carriage they all squeeze into is strangely packed at this hour, occupied mostly by people like them. Youngsters heading out for the night, or heading home, dressed fashionably, some of them equally drunk.

Harry’s holding Severus’ hand.

Everyone can see, but at this hour, with this crowd, no one really gives a shit. Severus even spots a few strangers smiling at them.

“You okay with this?” Harry asks quietly.

His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and their sprint through the street, his iridescent eyes shining like beacons.

“I’m not one for public displays of affection, but I think I’ll survive,” Severus grumbles, faking reticence.

Harry smirks. “Says the one who goes around kissing strangers on the tube.”

Severus snorts, trying to think of a good comeback, but his head is hazy, and he can’t quite think straight because Harry is so bloody gorgeous.

“Oh, shut up, you… you and your… perfect eyebrows,” he stutters, and Harry bursts out laughing.

When he drinks, Harry develops this pure, booming laughter that makes Severus’ heart skip. It’s like an uncensored version of his normal laugh, something at once familiar and unexpected. He looks even more gorgeous then, eyes blazing.

And on this strange and unpredictable night, this night he isn’t even sure he’s not completely imagining, Severus doesn’t care that everyone can see. He wraps his arms around Harry and holds him tight, muffling Harry’s laughter in such a way that he feels it inside his own chest.

The girls are grinning at him over Harry’s shoulder.

 _Morsmordre_ is located in an old gothic church in Soho. Kim and Tamlyn were right, the queue is so long it’s going around the block. But they ignore it completely, heading straight for the entrance with Harry leading the way. Some in the crowd snigger as they pass by, muttering unintelligibly with obvious scorn.

Blocking the way into the club are two incredibly tall, incredibly intimidating square-shouldered men dressed all in black.

“Hey, Crabbe,” Harry tells the one on the left. “How’re you doing?”

“Just peachy,” the man grumbles, but there’s a small curl of his lips as he looks at Harry. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy,” Harry says casually. “How’s your little girl?”

Crabbe’s steely expression twitches and he smiles. “Just started walking last week.”

“Brilliant! What’s her name again? Samantha?”

“Samara.”

“Samara,” Harry repeats with a smile. “That’s lovely. Busy night,” he adds, looking at the queue in admiration.

Crabbe shrugs. “Yeah. Friday night, you know.”

“Is Draco in?”

“Haven’t seen him so far.”

“Can we go in?” Harry asks again, jerking his head to the rest of them, all crowding behind him impatiently.

Ron is puffing out his chest, Tamlyn picking at her nails, and Kim leans on Severus’ shoulder casually, trying to look cool.

Crabbe shrugs again. “Yeah, fine,” he says, nodding to the other bouncer, who swings open one of the doors to let them through.

“Ah, come on!” someone shouts from the queue, followed by a chorus of complaints from those nearby.

“Shut up!” Crabbe grows in exasperation. “Last time I’m warning you. No one’s getting in if you don’t fucking shut up!”

Ron lets out a bark of laughter as they slip past the crowd, like he doesn’t believe their luck, or perhaps to taunt all those still waiting. Hermione shushes him, as if afraid they’ll get turned around if they act too cheeky about this.

They find themselves in a sort of atrium, before another set of doors, behind which they can hear the muffled beat of music.

“Harry, how have you been?” the girl at the coat-check greets them.

“Good,” he says shortly, getting a small black plastic card out of his wallet and showing it to her.

It has the club’s logo printed on it. A green skull with a twisted serpent slithering out of its mouth.

“Yeah, I know you’re VIP, but your friends still have to pay tonight,” she says apologetically. “It’s twenty pounds each, plus five pounds to check in your coats and bags,” she tells them.

“Fucking hell,” Ron mumbles, disgruntled, fumbling through his pockets.

“I told you,” Hermione whispers.

“I’ll pay for him, too,” Severus says, handing the girl fifty pounds and pointing at Ron. “It’s his birthday.”

Ron grins, suddenly his drunken, enthusiastic self again. “Wow! Thanks, mate!”

They all pay the fee, check in their coats, and get the club’s logo stamped on the back of their hands. Another bouncer, less intimidating than the first two, stands by the doors, waiting for them.

“You sure you want to go in?” Severus asks Harry.

Harry grins, grabbing his hand tightly. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. You good?”

“I’m good.”

His insides shiver, not entirely with nervousness, but with a sort of restlessness. With Harry next to him, he could do anything.

Yes, maybe if he wasn’t half drunk things would be different. But that doesn’t seem so important now.

“Have a good night, kids,” the bouncer says, pulling open one of the heavy doors for them.

From the outside, they could only vaguely discern the music as a distant beat, muffled by the centuries-old stone walls, but as soon as the inner doors open, they are engulfed.

Inside, _Morsmordre_ is nothing but darkness shot through with bright flashes of coloured lights. From the high ceiling of the church, lights and lasers shoot through the rafters, trailing beautifully through jets of white smoke, reflecting on the high, luminous painted glass windows.

The noise is overwhelming, the beat hard and loud, like they’ve just entered the chest cavity of some large beast, getting nearer and nearer to its beating heart. There’s a cacophony of sounds mixed with it, sirens and horns. And behind it all, a softly singing voice, forlorn, almost languid, crooning to draw them further in.

 _I can see the flickers_  
_Over me the lanterns raised_  
_Lift me up, lift me over it_  
_Show me what you’re hiding_  
_Take me out into the sea_  
_Lift me up, lift me over it_

Severus grips Harry’s hand tightly as they make their way through the dancefloor, where bodies pulse to the beat together, like one entity, like waves in the ocean, like blades of grass in a storm.

Through it all, he keeps his eyes on Harry, who keeps glancing back at him, as if making sure Severus is still there. The polychromatic lights make his skin shine blue, then red, then green, then gold. Severus can’t tear his eyes away.

They reach the back of the club, where the music is a touch less loud and they can actually hear each other if they lean in close. Harry leads them towards a closed-off section, where he flashes the little black card again, and another bouncer, who also seems to know him, leads them to a private booth.

“This place is fucking amazing!” Ron cries out, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and jumping with excitement.

“Let’s do shots!” Tamlyn announces, already waving for the waitress.

“No, no, no! No shots!” Harry protests. “I always get sick when I do shots–”

“Come on, it’s my belated birthday and we’re at fucking Morsmordre!” Ron yells in triumph. “Let’s do shots! You’ll be fine! Live a little!”

The waitress comes by to take their order, and just as Tamlyn is about to pay for the first round, Harry stops her and whispers something to the waitress. She nods before walking away.

Tamlyn stares at Harry with a dumbfounded look on her face, then hits him on the shoulder. “Are you fucking serious?”

She turns to the rest of them, laughing in disbelief. “He’s just told her to put all our drinks on Draco’s tab!”

“What?” Hermione exclaims. “You can do that?”

Harry shrugs. “I thought I’d give it a try. No one here knows we’re broken up, I guess. Or maybe they just don’t care.”

“Or maybe they’ve just stopped keeping track,” Ron says, laughing.

Harry only smiles, pretending he didn’t hear the comment, and looks around casually, scanning the crowd.

When the waitress returns with the shots, Tamlyn immediately orders another batch.

Harry takes a glass, raises it. “For my troubles,” he says before drinking.

“For your troubles!” Ron shouts. “Well, for all our troubles, actually. To Draco! May he shit his pants when he sees the bill!”

“To Draco!” the girls echo, laughing.

They all drink, Severus finishing his glass in three sips, slowly. He doesn’t want to drink too much. His head has only just started to clear up.

“You okay?” he asks Harry softly.

“Fine,” Harry assures him, a little brusquely perhaps. Then he smiles, squeezing Severus’ fingers briefly. “Everything’s just perfect. I’m really glad you’re here.”

When the waitress returns with a whole tray of shots in various colours, Harry grabs two, gulps them down one after the other, then goes for another one.

Severus grips his wrist softly. “Harry, slow down,” he says worriedly. “Please.”

Harry nods, setting the glass down, but as soon as Severus’ hand retreats, he snatches it up again and downs it.

Before Severus can say anything, Harry grins wickedly and grabs his hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Come dance with me,” he says, leading the way to the dancefloor, body already swaying to the music.

Severus lets Harry lead him through the crowd, brushing against strangers as they go, grazing warm and sweaty skin. By the time they’ve reached the centre of the dancefloor, a new song is starting, the beat faster, harder, and it thumps violently through Severus’ whole body.

Harry dances easily, following the music, following the bodies moving all around them, comfortable in the crowd and bristling with joy. He takes Severus’ hand, pulling him closer, trying to draw him in, but Severus can only stand there awkwardly, suddenly shy.

He’s never been much of a dancer, and there’s so many people.

Harry hugs him close for a moment, squeezing tightly. And when he pulls away, he’s smiling this gorgeous smile of his, and he yells something, inaudible over all the noise, but Severus manages to read his lips.

_Just let go!_

In that moment, he’s so fucking beautiful, looks so wild and young and carefree that Severus can only oblige. When Harry grabs his hand next, he lets go, lets the music fill him, thumping through his veins, resonating through his skull, his ribcage.

He dances with Harry and with everyone else, with all the strangers around them, not caring who they are.

They dance and dance, through one song and then another, and another, and another, never stopping, until they’re sweaty and breathless. The dancefloor is packed at this point, and they can barely move without bumping into at least three people, but in this instant, with Harry and the music and all those bodies enveloping them, Severus feels safe.

Harry throws his head back, singing along, screaming into the noise, hair wild and eyes shut with bliss.

 _Waiting for a roar_  
_Looking at the mutating skyline_  
_The city is my church_  
_It wraps me in the sparkling twilight_

Severus is breathless. He’s never seen anyone so magnetic, so brilliant. So alive.

Harry’s body slams into him. Either it’s voluntary on his part, or someone in the crowd has accidentally pushed him, but it doesn’t matter. Harry grins, wrapping his arms around Severus’ neck, body moving against his.

Severus slips his hands through Harry’s damp hair, down his neck and back, and he grabs Harry’s arse tightly, pulling their hips flush as he mouths along Harry’s jaw, lips open against burning hot skin.

He can tell those shots have smashed into Harry hard. From the heavy-lidded eyes and the lazy roll of his hips, he seems to be falling deeper and deeper into a drunken haze.

Harry’s grinding into him now, slowly, slower than the music, and Severus is so violently hard he’s almost dizzy with it.

They’re not dancing anymore. They’re fucking, that’s what they’re doing. Right here on the dancefloor. No one knows, they’ll think they’re just dancing, but that’s not what’s going on.

The crowd, the energy, the scorching air, Harry’s body against his.

Everything is so overwhelming Severus is just about ready to burst out of his skin, evaporate like steam into the air.

And it occurs to him then, right then, that whatever he was doing before this moment, that this thing he thought was living, it wasn’t living at all. It wasn’t anything.

This, right now, right here. All this noise, all these bodies, these lights. This boy.

This is living.

Harry wavers dangerously, gripping the back of his shirt, grabbing onto him for support. And he rests his cheek against Severus’ chest, breathing heavily.

Severus freezes, grabs Harry’s head softly to look at his face. “You okay?” he asks worriedly, hoping Harry can read his lips because absolutely no sound comes out of his mouth.

Harry nods, but he shuts his eyes tightly and staggers again a moment later, his legs almost giving out.

Severus holds him firmly, securely leading him away through the crowd and back to where they left his friends.

He’s probably had too much to drink too quickly. And he’s barely had anything to eat all day. And it’s so hot in here it’s suffocating.

Tamlyn is alone at the table, typing on her phone. “What happened?” she asks when they reach her. “Harry, you okay?”

Harry nods weakly, though he certainly doesn’t look okay.

Severus glances around, seeing the waitress busy with a very large group across the room. “Stay with him, I’ll get some water,” he tells Tamlyn before rushing over to the bar.

There’s a large mass of people waiting to order drinks. He tries to squeeze through unsuccessfully and ends up having to walk all the way around to a less crowded spot. He waves at the staff, but none of them really pay him any mind. Obviously, it’s first come first served.

“You fucked him yet?” someone says loudly to his left, the voice clear amongst all the conversations.

Severus waves at the barman again, insistently, pointing at the fridge packed with bottles of water, just to let him know that his order isn’t complicated, that this will only take a second.

Someone taps him on the shoulder from behind. “Hey! I’m talking to you! You fucked him yet?”

Next second, a tall boy with hair so pale it’s almost silver is squeezing next to him, leaning against the bar. His face is so flawless and sharp it looks cut from marble, cheekbones practically sticking out. From the somewhat glassy, wild look in his eyes, Severus can tell he’s high on something.

“What?” he asks dryly.

The boy looks at him intensely, squinting his eyes, then his beautiful, pale mouth curls into a sneer. “Yeah, you did. You fucked him.” He starts laughing almost gleefully.

“Fucking hell! You must feel smug, shagging a pretty young thing like that.”

Severus feels the anger crawl from the bottom of his stomach up to his throat. He waves at the barman again, ignoring the boy.

But the boy won’t let himself be ignored. He leans over, peering into Severus’ face closely.

“Fuck, you’re old! You’re what? Fifty? Fifty-five?”

“Fuck off,” Severus tells him darkly, looking him dead in the eye.

The boy laughs again, holding up his hands in some mockery of an apology.

“Hey, no need to be so hostile. Just making conversation.” He leans over the bar, waving at one of the staff, who rushes over. “Hey, Theo, get that bloke a drink. Apparently, I was rude,” he says, overly emphasising the words. “Get him an old man drink. What do old men drink usually? Gin and tonic? Yeah, get him a gin and tonic–”

“That’s not necessary,” Severus snaps. “I don’t want anything from you.”

The boy raises an elegant eyebrow, looking at him curiously. “Really? You didn’t seem to have a problem with me paying for your drinks before. You and your… pretty young thing,” he finishes scornfully.

Realisation dawns on Severus then.

“Oh, so you’re Draco,” he says, more calmly now. “Look, I can pay for the drinks, there’s no need to–”

“You think this is about the drinks? I don’t give a fuck about the drinks. My father pays for the drinks. Do I look like I have to worry about that? Do I?”

Severus looks at him, from his perfect face to his Versace t-shirt, his fashionably ripped jeans and his Armani shoes.

“No, you don’t.”

Draco laughs, looking away in the distance, and Severus follows his gaze to the table where Harry is sitting with Tamlyn, slumped against the back of the booth, eyes closed.

“He did shots, didn’t he?” Draco says, almost fondly, but there’s a harshness to his words, something sneering. “He’s always sick when he does shots. Look what happens when I’m not around to keep an eye on him. He’ll be puking his guts out in a bit. Probably won’t remember a thing tomorrow.” He turns back to Severus, leaning in closer. “I should have known he’d go for an old bloke next,” he says, as in confidence. “Daddy issues, I think. But he won’t admit it. Mummy issues, too, probably. Orphans, you know. So many issues–”

“Will you just fuck off?” Severus interrupts moodily. “I said I don’t want a drink,” he warns when the barman puts a gin and tonic down in front of him. “Just a bottle of water, please. Make that two.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those, are you?” Draco says now, laughing bitterly. “Knight in shining armour? I bet you worship him. I know men like you. You think the sun shines out of his arse just because he’s got a pretty face and big eyes and he gives good head.”

Severus stares at him. He wonders if the boy knows how close he is to getting his face smashed in. Probably not. Too high to sense danger.

“Do yourself a favour,” the boy continues, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the dark look on his face, “don’t put him on a pedestal. You barely know him. You don’t know him like I do–”

“I know enough,” Severus says through his teeth.

Draco scoffs. “That’s cute. Just don’t go thinking he’s in love with you or something. Don’t flatter yourself, you’re nothing special. He’s so starved for affection he’ll fuck anyone who so much as looks at him for more than a second. Enjoy it while it lasts. He’ll come back to me eventually. He always does. You think this hasn’t happened before? You think I haven’t had this conversation with other blokes? It’s always the same. He thinks he’s better off without me at first, but then he starts feeling insecure, or whoever’s been fucking him gets bored with him, and then he remembers that I,” he pauses, putting a hand on his chest humbly, “am the only one who really knows him, who’ll ever understand him, and he’ll come crawling back like a starved puppy. He always does. You can’t change that. We’ve got history.”

The barman comes back, puts two bottles of water down on the counter, then gets back to work.

“Harry’s like an onion,” Draco adds seriously.

Severus shakes his head, confused. “What?”

“An onion,” Draco repeats slowly, as if Severus is incredibly dim. “You know, you buy an onion from the market. It looks all perfect, like a good onion. Then you go to cut it, to make a salad or some shit like that, and you see that all the top layers of the onion are good, but everything in the centre’s rotten. And the deeper you go, the more rotten it is, until you’re just left with some mushy, smelly shit at the core. Harry’s like that. Looks good on the outside, but the deeper you go, the more rotten it gets.”

“If he’s so rotten, why do you stick around then?” Severus demands harshly, so angry his hands are shaking, his insides are shaking. “Why don’t you just leave him alone?”

Draco looks almost offended. “I am leaving him alone. Do you see me harassing him right now? No, I’m being considerate, keeping my distance. I don’t need to go to him, he’ll come to me. It’s always like that. And when he does, why would I object? He’s such a good fuck. I mean, apart from that disgusting scar on his back–”

He stops short when he sees the dark look on Severus’ face, snorts with laughter.

“Oh, you haven’t seen it yet? Well, you’re in for a surprise. It’s fucking repulsive. But if you make sure he keeps his shirt on, you don’t really have to look at it–”

“If you don’t stop talking now, I’ll smash your face in,” Severus says quietly, so furious he feels like he’s about to spontaneously combust.

Draco throws his head back and roars with laughter.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says afterwards, struggling to catch his breath. “You so much as touch me, you’ll be in big trouble.”

“You come near Harry, you’ll be the one in trouble.”

Draco snorts. “Big words. I can see you’re upset now, so I’ll leave you to it. But as I said, it’s just a matter of time. Here, why don’t you have a last drink on me?”

He grabs the gin and tonic from the bar and pours it slowly down the front of Severus’ shirt.

Severus only stands there, staring at him. It takes everything he has, every single fucking ounce of control, not to just grab the boy by the throat and slam him down. When Draco’s done, Severus grabs the two bottles of water, puts a ten pound note down on the counter and starts walking away.

“You don’t believe me about the onion?” Draco says seriously before he’s completely out of earshot. “Why don’t you look up Tom Riddle, see if you still think he’s so perfect and innocent then–”

Whatever he says after that gets lost amidst the noise.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Tamlyn asks when she sees his drenched shirt and his heated expression.

“I just met Draco,” he says shortly, hands shaking as he opens one of the waters for Harry.

“Fucking hell,” Tamlyn hisses, looking around. “Charming, isn’t he?”

“Quite.”

“I don’t feel so good,” Harry mumbles after he’s had a long sip of cold water.

“I know,” Severus tells him, running a hand through Harry’s sweaty hair. “It’s okay, I’m taking you home now.”

“Don’t wanna go home,” Harry whines softly. “I wanna go to your place.”

“Then we’ll go to my place. You should get the others and leave, too,” Severus tells Tamlyn, helping Harry to his feet.

“Listen,” she says seriously. “Whatever Draco said to you, he likes to stir shit up, okay? Just don’t go thinking–”

“Don’t worry,” he says shortly. “Just get the others and go. Where’s the ticket for your coat?” he asks Harry as they walk away.

“In my wallet,” Harry slurs, hanging onto his arm.

It’s not hard to find a cab, they’re all lining up outside the club. Severus slips in the back seat with Harry clinging to him, gives the driver his address, and off they go.

“Why’s your shirt all wet?” Harry asks softly, his head leaning heavily on Severus’ shoulder. “Oh my god,” he whines then, mortified. “Did I throw up on you?”

“No, someone just spilled their drinks. Don’t worry.”

Harry lets out a sigh of relief, nuzzling further into him. “I might throw up soon,” he confesses.

“I know,” Severus says softly, stroking his hair. “Just hold on, okay? We’re almost there. Take deep breaths. Do you mind if I roll down the window a bit?” he asks the driver.

“Go ahead,” the man says calmly, probably used to all sorts of club-goers doing all sorts of things in the back of his cab. “There’s plastic bags on the back of the seat. Please use one if he’s gonna be sick.”

“Thank you.”

Harry’s all but snoring on his shoulder by the time they arrive, and Severus feels guilty for waking him up. Once they get to the flat, however, Harry is fully awake, and all over him.

“You gonna fuck me?” he rasps into Severus’ skin, pressing messy kisses all over his throat and chin, hands fumbling for Severus’ belt.

“I don’t think so,” Severus protests gently.

“I wanna ride your cock,” Harry pouts, grinding against him. “Pease let me.”

“You’re too drunk, Harry. Stop,” Severus insists, pushing hair from Harry’s hot forehead before kissing him softly. “Another night, okay, love?”

Harry grins sheepishly at him. “You called me _love_.”

Severus chuckles. “I did.”

“I like that,” Harry confesses before announcing, almost solemnly. “I’m gonna be sick now.”

They barely make it to the bathroom in time before Harry’s throwing up violently, sobbing as he does so. Severus rubs his back softly through it, mumbling soothing nonsense.

It feels a little bit like déjà vu. How many times has he done this in the past? Colin could throw up for hours, so much so that sometimes Severus found him curled up on the floor hugging a pillow. Sometimes Severus would curl up next to him and they’d cry together.

Harry flushes the toilet a second time, then leans back against Severus, breathing heavily, shaking a little. Severus holds him, stroking his hair.

“Feeling better now?”

“I think so,” Harry mumbles sleepily into his neck. “I got some vomit on Hermione’s shirt,” he moans.

“It’s okay, I’ll wash it for you. Do you want to shower?”

“Will you come with me?”

“Of course.”

He strips Harry’s clothes off, then his own. They’re both sticky and soaked with sweat down to their underwear. He turns on the shower, making sure the water’s not too hot. God knows they both need to cool off. Then he climbs in, pulling Harry carefully in after him.

It’s a good thing Severus is showering too, because Harry’s almost dead on his feet. He would fall and hurt himself without someone supporting him. Harry holds onto him as the water runs over them, moaning softly as Severus soaps him up, practically purring while getting his hair shampooed.

When they get out, he lets Severus dry him off, then sits on the edge of the bathtub while Severus fetches some clothes for them. He finds an old t-shirt that’s a little too tight for him but still manages to slip off Harry’s shoulder, and a pair of boxer shorts that are supposed to fit snugly but hang off Harry’s hips.

Then he leads Harry, wet-haired and sleepy, into the bedroom.

“Are you okay? Do you think you’ll be sick again?” he asks, helping Harry into bed.

Fucking hell, he was right. Harry looks gorgeous in the new sheets, his skin almost white against the dark blue fabric.

“I’m okay,” Harry mumbles drunkenly as Severus slips in beside him. “Everything’s soft. Are we in your bed?”

“Yes, we’re in my bed.”

Harry smiles, cuddling up to him, tucking his head under Severus’ chin.

“I like your bed. It’s quiet.”

“Yes, compared to that monstrosity in your bedroom.”

“Monstrosity,” Harry whispers. “I like the way you talk. And I like you. Very much.”

Severus shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply, holding Harry tight.

“I like you, too.”

Harry is quiet for a long time, and Severus is almost sure he’d fallen asleep when he speaks again.

“It was great, wasn’t it? We had a great time,” he whispers, his breath warm and soft of the skin of Severus’ neck.

“We did,” Severus assures him. “It was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

“I’m sorry I’m ruining it,” Harry says softly. “We were supposed to have sex again.”

Severus smiles, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re not ruining anything, love. Just sleep.”

Harry giggles. “You said it again. I heard you.”

“Just sleep, will you?” Severus chuckles as Harry squirms, trying to get more comfortable.

“Can you open the window?”

“It’s freezing outside.”

“Please,” Harry whines. “I don’t sleep well without it.”

Severus sighs deeply, wiggling free of Harry’s grasp and the warmth of the bed, and walking over to crack the window open.

“Just for a little while,” he warns, getting back in and pulling the covers over them to block the wind drifting through.

“Sorry I’m such a child,” Harry mumbles. “It’s because of the cupboard.”

Severus frowns. Harry says the strangest things when he’s drunk.

“The cupboard?” he probes curiously.

Harry hums softly in response. “My aunt and uncle, they didn’t like me, they made me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. The boiler was in there and there wasn’t a window. It would get so hot. Sometimes I felt like I was suffocating, but I couldn’t get out because they always locked me in at night.”

Severus’ hands freeze where they’ve been stroking through Harry’s hair, ice spreading in his chest.

“What?” he asks quietly. “Harry, are you serious?”

But he knows Harry’s not lying. Harry wouldn’t make up stories like that.

He also has the strong, uncomfortable feeling that if Harry wasn’t drunk right now, there’s no way the boy would be telling him any of this.

“They went on holiday once, for the weekend,” Harry continues. “But they didn’t want to take me, so they left early while I was sleeping. And they didn’t want me to go around the house and touch anything, so they just kept the door locked.”

“What?” Severus asks again, a painful lump forming in his throat. Just then, he feels wetness on his neck and realises Harry’s crying.

“They were gone for three days,” Harry barely manages before he starts sobbing openly. “They didn’t even tell me they were leaving, they just left me there. I couldn’t even tell what time it was because I didn’t have a watch, and Uncle Vernon had taken out the lightbulb to punish me. I thought I would die in there.”

Severus holds him as he cries, his own eyes filling with tears.

Bloody fucking hell! Who would do this to a child?

This is certainly not the kind of thing Severus was expecting when Harry told him he didn’t get along with his relatives.

“It’s okay, now,” Severus whispers, cradling Harry’s body tightly. “Shhh… It’s okay, love…”

“I dream about it sometimes,” Harry rasps through his sobs. “I dream that I wake up and it’s dark and I can’t tell where I am, and I can’t get away and I scream and no one’s answering…”

Severus’ throat is so raw from unshed tears he can’t even get any words out besides vague, soothing sounds.

He’s never felt so helpless before. What the fuck is he supposed to say to something like this? He can only hold Harry through it, stroking his hair, his back, his neck, until the sobbing stops.

“Do you know _Moon River_?” Harry asks afterwards, voice rough from crying, clinging to him silently.

“The song?”

“Yeah, do you know it?”

“I’ve heard it before.”

“Can you sing it to me?”

“I don’t know… I’m not sure I… I can read to you, if you’d like,” Severus says hesitantly.

“Sing _Moon River_. Please, Sev, can you sing it?” Harry begs quietly.

He doesn’t remember the words exactly, so he ends up just humming the tune, but his throat is so tight with pain and anger that his voice keeps breaking. Still, it seems to be enough because Harry remains quiet, resting his cheek over Severus’ heart.

He hums the melody over and over until, eventually, he realises Harry’s asleep. Then he falls silent, staring into the darkness

Something tickles his cheek and he realises he’s been crying without noticing.

He’s so furious he’s certain he’ll never fall asleep again, so it’s quite unexpected when he does.

In his dream, Colin is screaming. He’s not even speaking words, just screeching in anger, howling like an animal, and he’s hurling plates at Severus’ head.

The assault is so violent Severus can only try to protect himself with his arms. He hears the plates break against the walls, the cabinets, the tiles. And then one of them collides with his chin, sparking pain through his skull.

He lunges furiously at Colin, forcing his arms down, making him drop the plates he’s holding, and he slaps him hard across the face. Colin growls, slaps him back violently, and then throws his head back and charges, biting Severus on the shoulder.

Severus pushes him away, throwing him back against the cabinets, and the whole place shakes, clattering violently.

Colin’s eyes are wild and furious, and when he opens his mouth to scream, everything trembles and explodes into shards of glass.

When Severus wakes with a start, it’s already morning.

At first, he thinks the dream woke him, but next second Harry’s tumbling out of bed and rushing to the bathroom.

By the time Severus catches up with him, he’s already retching into the toilet.

“You okay?” Severus asks softly when he’s done, helping him to his feet and stroking his back as Harry rinses his mouth at the sink.

“I’m never drinking again,” Harry moans, washing his face with cold water. “Fuck… my head…”

“I’ll get you some aspirins.”

Severus fetches them from the kitchen, where he’s left them last time. When he comes back, Harry’s sitting on the edge of the tub, waiting for him, squinting at the sharp daylight coming in through the window. Severus hands him two pills with a tall glass of water, which he gulps down.

“I lost a contact lens in the toilet,” Harry announces sombrely afterwards, rubbing his eyes. “When did we get here?”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you remember?”

“I remember we went to _Morsmordre_ and I remember dancing…” he trails off, sighing heavily. “We did shots, didn’t we? I always get sick when I do shots.”

“I tried to get you to slow down,” Severus says.

Harry winces. “I’m sorry. I hope I wasn’t too much of a pain. Hermione says I’m a sad drunk, was it bad?”

“It was okay,” Severus says, forcing himself to smile but feeling his insides shift as he remembers what Harry’s told him during the night and decides not to mention it. “We danced and then you started feeling sick, so we came here. We showered and went to bed. That’s it.”

“What?” Harry frowns, feigning surprise. He’s so hungover every single emotion on his face looks painful. “You didn’t even take advantage of me? I bet I was all over you.”

Severus laughs. “Oh, you were. But I’m not that easy.”

Harry guffaws, then winces, rubbing his eyes. “Oh fuuuuuck,” he complains.

Severus takes his hand, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you back into bed,” he says before pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead.

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course, I don’t. Come on.”

Harry falls right back to sleep, almost as soon as he’s tucked back into bed. But Severus doesn’t join him. He just looks at him for a while, then leaves the room. He doesn’t close the window.

He makes himself a cup of tea and settles in front of the computer to check his messages.

Ella’s answered his email, thanking him mercilessly for his insights and begging him to write back as soon as he’s had time to look at the other stuff she’s sent him.

Loïc has also written back. His mother wants Severus to know that the new tenants would like things to be settled by Monday.

Severus startles. Today is Saturday.

He picks up his phone, and for the first time since he’s returned to London, he glances at all the missed calls he hasn’t answered, all the calls he’s ignored for the last three weeks or so.

Marine’s called him about a million times, along with various other acquaintances. Madame Mirbeau’s called five times. Severus calls her back.

If he was unsure about giving up the apartment before, last night’s dream has managed to convince him that it’s time to let go of it.

It’s the one place in the world that’s completely filled with memories of Colin. They’d moved in there together, had lived there for twelves years. Twelves years of memories, not all of them good. Most of them bad. Especially toward the end.

He’s on the phone for over an hour, and by the time he hangs up, it’s already settled that he’s heading to Paris later today. It’s fast, and it makes him so anxious he’s just about to keel over with stress, but it’s necessary.

He’ll have the whole day tomorrow to clean up the apartment, and then he’ll sign the papers with the new tenants on Monday. Then it’ll all be over.

Let it all be over.

He books the plane tickets and a hotel room, because there’s no way he’s sleeping at the apartment. There’s no need to spend more time there than necessary.

Once everything is settled, without exactly knowing how or meaning to, and before he can really comprehend what he’s doing, Severus finds himself looking up _Tom Riddle_ on the computer.

It’s been there, nagging in the back of his mind, ever since his talk with Draco. He’s been warned not to listen to that boy, and there was no need to warn him at all. It’s obvious Draco is a little shit who just wants to cause trouble and hurt, but still. Severus is only human. And he’s always been fucking curious.

The only links he finds are two short news articles. One is from _The Telegraph_ , dating back to 2008, and the other, almost identical, from _The Guardian_ , the same year. Both describe Tom Riddle as an English teacher at Hoggarts School, who just got arrested for sexual coercion of a minor. Nothing much is mentioned apart from the fact that the alleged victim is one of his students, and that the ‘relationship’ had been going on for three years.

2008\. Harry was fourteen.

Three years. Harry was eleven.

_Harry was eleven._

Severus just sits there, staring at the screen.

 _See if you still think Harry’s so perfect and innocent then_ , Draco said.

At first, he doesn’t want to believe it, but how can he not?

All the pieces start falling together until he can see the whole picture, until everything makes sense.

Lupin’s warning. _There are dark things in him, things you won’t like_.

The bottle of Xanax in Harry’s bathroom.

 _There are days when I’m so sad I just can’t get out of bed_.

Ron glaring at him over the kitchen table. _You’re how old exactly?_

Hermione’s concern. _He always tells me he’s okay even when he isn’t._

The way Harry’s so guarded when they’re intimate, always gripping Severus’ arms as if to stay in control, to protect himself.

The way he’s so insecure he keeps going back to Draco.

 _Harry’s like an onion_.

It wasn’t just the scars on his back he was hiding. It was a different kind of scars.

Severus takes deep breaths. He’s so furious he has to count to ten, over and over. If he doesn’t, he will lose it and start breaking stuff. His hands are already shaking with the urge to grab and throw and watch things shatter.

He hasn’t been this angry since Colin.

“What time is it?”

Severus shuts the computer swiftly as Harry wanders into the room, shuffling his feet. He yawns, rubbing at his face, a bare shoulder peeking out of Severus’ shirt.

“A little after noon,” he answers, trying to act casually, like his whole chest is not on fire with rage and the urge to kill everyone who’s ever touched the boy standing in front of him. “Do you feel any better?”

“Not really,” Harry admits, “but I don’t want to sleep all day. We were supposed to spend today together.”

“I know, but…” Severus pauses, searching for words. “I was just about to go wake you. I have to go to Paris.”

Harry doesn’t answer for a time, just blinks at him somewhat owlishly. “When?”

“I booked a ticket for this evening.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I have some affairs to settle. I’m giving up my apartment, and there’s papers to sign, things that I left there that I need to pack, people to see,” Severus summarises. “I’ll be gone a few days.”

Again, Harry is silent for a time.

“Okay,” he says finally, hesitant. “Can I come with you?”

“Don’t you have work?”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe I could take some time off.”

“You think your boss would let you?”

“No,” Harry admits.

“You probably shouldn’t ask then–”

“I could still ask,” Harry interrupts. “We never know.”

Severus sighs, shaking his head. “Harry… these things, I’d rather… It’s probably better I do them on my own.”

Harry looks at him for a long moment, searchingly.

“Did I do something?” he asks, biting his lip. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Because I feel like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

Severus shakes his head again, but his heart keeps clenching tighter and tighter.

He doesn’t want to get rid of Harry, but he’s afraid if he has to keep looking at him, he might just start crying.

“I just… have a lot on my mind,” he says finally. “I’m sorry, but I should start packing.”

“Well, I guess I should just go, then,” Harry says, looking away swiftly. “Where are my clothes?”

Severus follows him as he practically rushes back to the bedroom.

“Your… your shirt is in the wash… I’ll do laundry when I get back,” he explains as Harry looks around, avoiding his eyes, searching for his things. “You can… keep this one. Your jeans are on the dresser…”

He watches as Harry dresses quickly, his back to him, a tremor in his shoulders.

He stops himself from reaching out and turning the boy around, because he suspects Harry is fighting back tears at this very moment, and he can’t bring himself to witness it.

He’s never felt like such a git before.

_You’re an idiot, Severus. Why would you believe Draco? He tricked you. He knew about Riddle and he told you to look him up because he knew you’d jump to conclusions and assume it’s about Harry. Why don’t you just ask him?_

_Just ask him. He’ll tell you it’s nothing, you’ll see._

“I met Draco last night,” he says before he can stop himself.

Harry says nothing at first, but then there’s a tremor of something anxious in his voice when he asks, “He was there?”

“Yes. He must have arrived after we got there.”

“Is that why we left?”

“No. Not exactly. We left because you could barely walk.”

“Did he come talk to me?”

Severus shakes his head. “No, but he talked to me. He came up to me while I was at the bar, said some horrible things about you.”

Harry nods, still not looking straight at him. “Yeah, he’s horrible most of the time.”

They head back into the living-room, where Harry puts his shoes on and grabs his coat, still avoiding Severus’ gaze.

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” Severus asks, finally.

Harry frowns, like he hasn’t understood, or hasn’t been listening, but Severus notices how the breath seems to leave him for a second upon hearing the name.

“Who?”

“Draco said something about a Tom Riddle. He said I should ask you about him, that you might have something interesting to say–”

Harry shrugs, cutting him off. “There’s nothing to say. He was a teacher at Hoggarts. I don’t know what the fuck Draco was on about. He’s high most of the time, you know.”

“I noticed.”

His throat is dry, and he stops his whole body from shaking when Harry leans in to kiss him on the lips.

“Will you call me tonight? When you get there?” Harry asks quietly.

“Of course,” he hears himself say.

Harry smiles briefly, looking somewhere over Severus’ shoulder, and then he’s gone.

Once Severus is alone in the flat, he grabs his teacup from the desk and throws it hard against the wall. But there’s no satisfaction to be had from it.

There aren’t enough teacups in the world to satisfy this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> – _Eyes of adventure and light-years_ is from French Canadian poet Gaston Miron. It’s a line from one of his most famous poems, and one of my all-time favourites, “La marche à l’amour” (The March to Love). 
> 
> – _Two mouthfuls of silence_ is from Paul Celan’s poem “Speech-grille”
> 
> – The quote by Yeats is from _The Land of Heart’s Desire._
> 
> – The familiar piano melody in Severus’ dream is Philip Glass’ _Metamorphosis Two. ___
> 
> __– The song playing as they enter Morsmordre is Son Lux’s _Flickers (Zeds Dead Remix)_ , and the one they dance to is M83’s _Midnight City._


	5. capital of pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s going to get through this, then he will find Harry and fix things. There’s no other way. There’s no need to be afraid. He must be brave about this. If he has to be brave once in his life, let it be now. He thinks about the courage Harry must have had to muster to tell him about the fire, to show him the scar, to reveal this part of himself to him, this vulnerability. He thinks about what Harry’s had to endure, about the little boy in the cupboard under the stairs, locked away in the darkness, lonely and scared. Severus thought he’d had it bad. At least he had his mother. Harry had no one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter takes place in Paris. The bits in italics are conversations in French.
> 
> Reminder that I’m on Tumblr now (liladiurne). Feel free to drop by to chat!
> 
> Lots of love. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND EDITED ON 25-11-2018.

* * *

 

-5-  
**capital of pain**

 

 _Loving you was like going to war;_  
_I never came back the same._

WARSAN SHIRE

 

* * *

 

In his dream, Severus is killing a man. There is no face, no name, there is only a neck, and his hands tightening around it. And there is the knowledge, absolute and terrifyingly clear, that this man has done unspeakable things.

Severus has taken it upon himself to become his executioner. Gladly.

The rage, the thirst for retribution burns through him, red hot and uncontrollable. Because somehow, this is deeply personal.

He wants to kill this man. He’s never wanted anything as much as he wants this.

But the more his hands crush, the more the neck under them shrinks. It gets smaller and thinner still until Severus finds himself holding onto a small child. Pale, terrified face, large eyes filling with tears, lips turning blue. And when he tries to let go, he finds his hands are locked there. And the more he tries to let go, the more his hold tightens. He has no power over it, like his hands are not his own. The child hangs limply from them, already resigned to his fate.

 _Fight back!_ Severus tries to cry out, but no words come. _Fight back! Why aren’t you fighting back?_

But still the child only stares at him, motionless with fear. And by the time he feels the small bones crush under his grip, Severus is weeping in agony, begging for forgiveness.

There’s this overpowering feeling upon waking, of nausea and revulsion.

It’s so strong, so omnipresent and deep-rooted that it’s immediately obvious it has nothing to do with the outrageous amount of alcohol Severus has ingested since last night.

He had his first drink at the bar in Heathrow, blaming it on the restlessness of having a plane to board. And because one is never enough, he had a second.

He had his third on the plane, and his fourth at the hotel bar when he’d arrived. And then his fifth.

His sixth was from the minibar in the room, and he ordered the seventh from room service.

He’d almost managed to forget the real reason he was drinking when Harry called.

But he didn’t pick up because he couldn’t bear to hear Harry’s voice. Besides, he was so drunk by then he could barely put two words together, and he’d already started crying.

All he could think about while he sat sobbing into his hands was how, somewhere in the not-so-distant past, a grown man was running his own hands all over Harry’s eleven-year-old body. And he kept picturing Harry’s tiny hands gripping this man’s shoulders, trying to push him away but failing, and finally just lying there, resigned, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it all to be over.

And when Harry called again later, Severus was busy throwing up.

It’s morning now, but the curtains in the hotel room are so thick they barely let any light in at all.

It’s better this way. Darkness is what he needs right now.

Severus shifts onto his side, head throbbing with the motion, and he grabs his phone with some difficulty to look at the screen.

Harry’s called one more time, much later. Surely Severus was passed out by then because he doesn’t remember hearing it.

Three missed calls since yesterday. All from Harry. And there’s a text message, too.

_Everything ok?_

Harry’s sent it around three in the morning.

Severus slams the phone back on the table, hides his face in the pillow, bites into it to stop himself crying out in misery.

From the moment Harry left his flat yesterday, and while Severus was packing, when he got in the cab to the airport, when he had his first drink and then his second, and all through the terribly long night that followed, all he’s been able to do is review their every encounter in his head, trying to find signs that maybe, in some way, without realising it, he’s been too insisted. That maybe, without knowing it, he’s forced Harry into something.

_He was abused, for fuck’s sake! How could you be so careless? You should have paid attention!_

But he did pay attention! He’s made sure Harry was okay, every step of the way. Because he suspected. That’s why he kept asking yes again and again, didn’t he?

No, he didn’t suspect. He knew. Somehow, deep down, Severus knew something like this had happened.

The hints were all there. There were glimpses of it in Harry’s eyes, in his smiles, in the smallest of his gestures, in the way he talked.

Yes, Severus knew, maybe from the very beginning, that Harry’s confidence, his selflessness, his nonchalance, this was all just a façade, that something much more fragile lurked within.

Maybe that’s why Severus felt so drawn to him. That’s what broken people do, don’t they? They find each other.

Yes, he knew something like this had happened. Something like this, but not this. The truth is, he wasn’t prepared for something of this magnitude.

_Don’t you dare, Severus! Don’t you fucking dare give up on him because of something that he had no control over. Something that probably haunts him a thousand times more than it haunts you!_

What? He doesn’t want to give up on Harry! What he wants is to act like nothing ever happened, to take everything back. He wants to turn back time and never know. He wants to go back and never type those two words on the computer. And never ask.

He wants to go back and just shut the fuck up about it all.

But it’s too late now. Three missed calls, when he himself had promised to call. He’s waited too long. There will be questions now. And Harry already knows what this is all about.

Fuck, Severus should have never mentioned Tom Riddle at all. He should have never asked, should have pretended he didn’t know. And who knows? Maybe with time he’d have forgotten all about it.

Right. Because that’s exactly how his mind works.

From the very first kiss, Severus has tried to analyse everything. From the first soft, barely-there touch of their lips on the tube, to that last, brief, heartbreaking kiss yesterday, before Harry left his flat. He’s reviewed every single moment spent in Harry’s presence, every single time they’ve touched, trying to gage Harry’s reaction, his responses. Trying to remember his own gestures.

But memory is fallible, and try as he might, Severus can’t recall the details with as much exactitude as he would like.

Through it all, he keeps remembering Harry’s amused smile as they stood in the dark hallway at Grimmauld Place.

 _You think I let just anyone kiss me?_ he’d said.

What exactly is Severus so worried about? Shouldn’t he rejoice?

Harry’s let him into his life. Harry wants him. He hasn’t forced Harry into anything. Harry let Severus kiss him. Harry’s the one who invited him to dinner, who asked him to stay the night.

Yes, after Severus basically forced him to.

 _Ask me to stay,_ he’d whispered into Harry’s ear.

But no! Harry grabbed Severus’ hand and led him to his bedroom. Harry asked Severus to kiss him again. He wanted it.

And that kiss! Bloody hell, that kiss. One doesn’t kiss like that if one is reluctant.

But what about that hesitation the first night? How Harry wouldn’t let Severus touch him, how he kept pushing Severus’ hands away.

What about it? That was just because of the scar. Harry said so afterwards. He said he was afraid Severus would see it and reject him.

But maybe he was lying.

He’s lied before, and Severus was never able to tell.

Little white lies, as easy as breathing.

 _I should go, I’ve got work in the morning_.

_Sorry, poetry’s not really my thing._

Maybe he was lying again. Maybe Severus was moving too fast and he got scared and he really wanted to stop but he was too scared Severus wouldn’t want to stop and so he just went along with it.

_Slow down, Severus. Deep breaths. Deep breaths._

He asked. He noticed and made it clear they could stop if Harry didn’t want things to go further. He could have pushed Severus away, he could have pulled away at any moment. Severus made sure he knew that, didn’t he?

And when Harry did pull away, that second night, Severus let him go. It broke his heart, but he let Harry go. And afterwards he made Harry promise to tell him if he didn’t like something, if he was scared or uncomfortable. And Harry promised. He meant it. He wasn’t lying.

But he did lie that night, didn’t he? Later, when they stood in Severus’ bright, shining bathroom, and he’d avoided Severus’ gaze and stripped off his shirt. He must have been lying when he said what scared him off at first wasn’t something someone else had done. He was lying when he said it was just because of the scar. Surely it couldn’t just be the scar. It was only an excuse, it was only a cover.

But how can Severus know for sure?

Who is he to guess what’s happening inside Harry’s head, to assume such things?

Honestly, he should just talk to Harry and find out once and for all instead of torturing himself like this.

But torturing himself is what Severus is good at.

He shuts his eyes tightly as the memory of that night resurfaces. That night when Harry had flinched away, and Severus’ blood had turned cold with fear. That night when he’d just kept pounding into Harry without a care.

No, not without a care! He made sure Harry was okay, that he wasn’t hurt. And Harry asked Severus to fuck him harder. He wanted it.

Who cares if he wanted it? He deserved better than that.

Severus should have been gentle, should have looked at his face. Severus should have laid him down on the bed and fucking worshipped him.

And the next morning! God, the next morning, how he’d so carelessly fucked into Harry’s mouth!

_He was abused, maybe even raped! How could you do this to him?_

As if on cue, his phone chimes. Severus grabs it, hands shaking. Of course, it’s a text from Harry.

_I think we need to talk_

Severus can only stare at the screen, blood turning cold.

Harry will know that he’s seen the message. He will know that Severus is avoiding him if he doesn’t respond now.

He panics, types before he can stop himself.

 _I’m sorry,_  
_I can’t talk right now._  
_Lots to do._  
_I’ll call you later._

He regrets the words as soon as he’s sent them. Pathetic coward! He would take them back if he could, but it’s too late.

 _It’s not too late!_ his conscience yells at him. _Just call him now and tell him everything. Tell him why you haven’t been answering his calls. Tell him you’re a prick and you’re sorry for reacting the way you did. Tell him you can’t bear the thought that maybe you’ve hurt him somehow and that he might be too scared to tell you. That you can’t bear the thought of anyone hurting him. That you’d go on a rampage and kill everyone who’s ever laid a hand on him if you didn’t hold back._

_Just tell him you love him._

Severus doesn’t do any of that. He watches helplessly as Harry types his reply. He looks at those three little dots blinking on the screen, winking in and out of existence.

He waits as Harry types and types.

_Ok_

That’s it. There’s nothing more.

Severus stares at the screen for a long time, but the three little dots don’t reappear.

He puts his phone away. He can’t stand the sight of it any longer. If he has to look at it, Severus will be forced to think about what to say when he calls Harry back.

Why would he even write that? Why would he promise to call later when he can’t even fathom the possibility of ever gathering enough courage to do such a thing?

He won’t let himself overthink this. If he does, he’ll end up having a panic attack.

Later, like he promised, he’ll call Harry back. Or if Harry calls again, he’ll pick up. Either way, he’ll tell Harry everything.

The phone starts ringing.

His heart gives a jolt, painful and nauseating.

Fuck! He’s not ready yet.

_Don’t panic. Everything will be okay. At least now you can get it over with quickly. You won’t have to spend the whole day worrying over it. You just have to pick up and answer. There’s no ignoring it anymore._

But it’s not Harry calling. It’s Constance.

He almost doesn’t pick up, but he’s suddenly filled with the overwhelming desire to hear her voice. He’d want to hug her if he could. He’d want her to hold him tight and tell him everything will be okay.

“Hello?” he rasps, his voice sore and painful to use, his tongue dry and heavy in his mouth.

Constance laughs. “Someone’s had a lot to drink.”

Severus groans, which only makes her laugh harder. There’s no use denying it, Constance can always see right through him.

“Yes.”

“Sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

“You forgot about me,” she scolds, mildly annoyed.

“What?”

“Ella said you’d let me know about dinner. You never called.”

Fuck. Sunday dinner. Of course.

He clears his throat, a scratchy, pathetic sound. It doesn’t help in the least.

“Sorry, I won’t be able to make it–”

“Really? I’m sure you’ll be fine by tonight, Sev. It’s only ten–”

“Constance, I’m in Paris.”

The way he’s said it, with a certain sombre tone, is enough to alert her.

“You went back? Already?”

There’s disbelief and a small quiver to her voice betraying how truly hurt she is.

“Not for good, just for a few days.”

“Is everything okay?”

 _No,_ he wants to say. _Nothing is okay. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here_.

He wants to tell her about Harry and everything that’s happened. He wants to explain to her that he’s got absolutely no energy to deal with any of the things he must deal with here. He wants to say it out loud, that coming here was a mistake, that the timing is terrible. But he doesn’t know where to start, or how to express all of this.

He can’t even comprehend his own thoughts, his own feelings. How is he supposed to share them with anyone else?

“It’s fine… I’m just… I’m giving up my apartment here and there’s new tenants ready to move in already, and I need to pack up my things and… I have to go through… through Colin’s things–”

“Do you want me to come over?” Constance asks at once. “I will, Sev, if you need me. I can book a flight now and be there in a few hours. It’s no bother at all.”

Oh, he wants so badly for her to be here right now, but there’s this prideful, obnoxious part of him that doesn’t want her to see him in this state.

“I need to do this on my own, I think,” he says, almost cringing at how weak his own voice sounds.

“You don’t have to, Sev.”

“I know, but I’ll be fine. I’ve just been delaying this for too long, and now I’m overwhelmed. I should have done it at the beginning, right after he died, but… I do that. I avoid things.”

_Yes, you do, don’t you? You’ve got avoiding things down to a fucking art form._

“I want you to call if you need to, okay?” Constance says firmly. “I’ll have my phone on me, even at work tomorrow. And you have people there, don’t you? You reach out to them if you’re having a hard time. I don’t want you to be completely on your own, Sev. Your friend, his sister, what’s her name again?”

“Marine,” he croaks out.

“You’ll call her, Sev? Promise me?”

“I promise.”

She sighs, and there’s a moment of profound silence. He knows she doesn’t believe him and his promises. She knows him. She’s debating whether to just go ahead and book a flight to Paris anyway.

“Is it okay if I call again to check in on you?”

He scoffs. “I don’t see how I could stop you.”

“Bloody right.”

He can’t help it, he smiles shakily. “I’ll be okay,” he says.

“I know you will. You’re stronger than you think, Sev. We’ll talk later, okay? Go get yourself some coffee and breakfast, then do what you must and come back home. I’ll call you later.”

Severus drags himself out of bed, like fighting the laws of gravity. Then he rummages through the small carry-on he’s brought with him and picks out some clothes for the day.

He does all this slowly, like a ritual, folding the trousers and then the pants and then the shirt and setting all of it down neatly on the bed.

He showers, at first wincing under the aggressive pressure of the hotel water. But then he decides that he likes it. It leaves him feeling raw, like new, without the layer of bad thoughts that seems stuck to him like grime.

He’s booked a hotel in the Quartier Latin. It’s outrageously expensive, but within walking distance of the apartment so that he doesn’t have to take the metro or get a taxi.

The only thing Severus hates more than the Paris metro are Paris taxi drivers and their shouting and atrocious driving.

He knows what he must look like, walking out of a hotel in his own neighbourhood, barely five blocks away from his own address. Like a man having an affair.

Despite the headache, despite the awful day ahead, Severus walks easily, with something like an agreeable feeling to his steps, as he makes his way through the crowd of tourists and locals alike. The street feels familiar under his feet, the store fronts and cafés so customary that he barely sees them at all.

He steps into one of them and buys a coffee and a baguette. It’s not his usual spot. He doesn’t feel like seeing the old familiar faces at the café across from his apartment and having to answer the expected questions, because surely Madame Mirbeau’s told everyone about his hasty retreat.

He chugs the burning espresso directly at the counter and walks away with the still-warm bread.

He thought he’d feel sick at the sight of his building but, quite unexpectedly, there’s nothing of the sort. Instead, a strange wave of relief comes over him. The feeling of coming home.

Severus ignores it. He pushes open the heavy outside doors – glass an wrought-iron – and lets himself in.

The lobby is vacant, thank God. No chit-chat with the neighbours.

He fumbles for his keys and unlocks the inner French doors in a hurry.

He walks up the stairs in silence, like a thief, trying not to alert anyone to his presence. There’s so much echo in the stairwell you can hear everything from inside any of the apartments.

Severus is out of breath by the time he reaches the third floor. He could have used the lift, of course, but the thought of being stuck in there with the old chatty lady from the fourth, or anyone else for that matter, is unbearable.

He’s always loved this building, and this staircase especially. He’s fallen in love with it on day one, when he first visited with Colin. Black, wrought-iron railing and hardwood steps, contrasting with the immaculate white-panelled walls. The floor on the landing is checkered black-and-white, with marble baseboards.

It’s all so typically, so beautifully Paris it never fails to make him smile.

He’s thoroughly exhausted by the time he reaches his door on the seventh floor. He struggles to fit the key in, then disappears inside the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind him.

_Severus grazes Colin’s hand as he brushes by to look outside the window, but he doesn’t hold it. Colin hates being intimate in front of strangers, and it’s obvious the landlady is just dying for them to show affection._

_She looks at them avidly, probably expecting the two of them to be overly emotional just because they’re gay._

_“Take your time,” she says after a while, probably disappointed by their visible lack of enthusiasm. “Let me know when you’ve decided,” she adds, closing the door behind her._

_Colin is too busy walking around the vacant rooms to notice her leaving, but Severus nods gratefully. He lets out a deep sigh when she’s gone, taking one last look at the larger bedroom before joining Colin in the living-room._

_“Putain,” Colin hisses grudgingly, looking at the high ceilings in admiration. “I was hoping I’d hate this bourgeois shit-hole, but I love it.”_

_“Me too,” Severus admits. “But four bedrooms? Do we really need that many?”_

_Colin shrugs, trying to look disinterested, but Severus knows he wants this just as badly. “I’m sure we’d find a use for them.”_

_Severus smirks. They’ve both figured all that out already. “One for us, one for guests, an office, and a studio,” he summarises._

_Colin scoffs out a laugh and smiles, shaking his head. “How would we pay for this?” he says quietly then, voicing their main concern._

_“We can split the deposits. And use our savings for the first six months. But after that…” Severus trails off._

_He can’t stand the thought of not living here. He’s already in love with the way the afternoon sun hits the walls._

_If worse comes to worst, Severus could always ask his grandparents for help. They both know this but choose not to acknowledge it, Colin especially. The reminder that Severus comes from money is a constant source of annoyance for him. And of jealousy, Severus suspects._

_“If you don’t publish anything, and if I don’t sell anything, we’ll be out on the streets,” Colin remarks. Then he grins, lighting up the room even more. “When you think about it, this could be a good thing for us. We’ll have no choice but to be productive.”_

_It doesn’t take much convincing for Severus to agree._

_They sign the lease, are given the keys, and walk back upstairs under the pretence of measuring for drapes._

_They end up fucking on the floor of what will eventually become their bedroom._

Severus stares at the wall facing him. There’s a photograph there, a black-and-white Man Ray from 1935. It shows a couple leaning against an alley wall, the man’s arm wrapped around the woman’s waist. Above them, a street sign reads _Impasse des Deux Anges_.

The man in the hat is surrealist French poet Paul Éluard, and the woman is Nusch, his second wife.

Severus had to fight tooth and nail to put up this photograph. Éluard was always too slushy, too sentimental for Colin’s tastes. _Your poet_ , he always said with some disdain. But he loved Man Ray, so he’d grudgingly allowed Severus to put it up, though not in the living-room.

Severus could have placed it in his office, but he’d chosen the entrance hall as a taunt.

 _It’s not in the living-room_ , he’d said with a smirk when confronted about it.

He stares at the photo for a long time, thinking that maybe he’ll take it with him and hang it in the flat in London. Then he rubs at his face tiredly and steps further inside.

He walks along the long, narrow hallway of white walls and large, beautifully-carved mouldings, past the bedroom, the bathroom, his office, Colin’s studio. He ignores it all, resisting the urge to enter each room, to look around, to let the familiarity settle in.

He’s not staying. What use would familiarity be?

This isn’t home anymore. It might feel like it, but it isn’t.

Isn’t it?

Someone’s opened a window to let in the morning air. Probably Madame Mirbeau, expecting him. And there’s a bouquet of dahlias in a heavy vase on the kitchen island. Blood red, contrasting with everything.

A note is attached.

 _Merci infiniment_  
_Laura & Damien_

Severus scowls at it. Surely the future tenants.

As he cuts up the baguette and spreads butter and jam on it, Severus wonders what they look like.

Young professionals, surely. In their early thirties. They’d want lots of room for eventual children.

He smirks. If they only knew what’s happened in here. In twelve years, there probably isn’t a spot in this whole place, floor or furniture, that hasn’t been fucked on.

The living-room takes up the corner of the building. Two walls of tall windows with drapes that graze the floors, and one with French doors leading onto the balcony, which runs quite a length along the façade, and is also accessible from the bedroom. There’s a grand fireplace on the opposite wall, with an antique mirror mounted over it. The room is large enough for two sofas facing each other, and some armchairs strewn around, with the addition of low tables and some bookcases.

_“What the fuck is this?” Colin chokes out moodily when he walks in and notices the newest addition to the room._

_The smile on Severus’ face promptly fades. At first, he thinks Colin is just joking, that he’s taking the piss, that he can’t possibly be upset about this. He just can’t be. But Colin never makes jokes. And he looks mortified._

_“It’s the sofa you wanted,” Severus announces, trying to ignore the clenching in his chest. “I wanted to surprise you. I had it delivered this morning.”_

_Colin looks even more furious at this. “I never said I wanted this sofa!” he yells. “It’s hideous!”_

_Severus feels his face heat up._

_Here we go. He should have known. He should have fucking known Colin would change his mind. Colin always fucking changes his mind._

_Severus should know better by now. He should know better than to try to do anything nice for Colin._

_“When we were in the shop,” he says slowly, doing his best not to let anger take over, “you said you loved it, that you’d always wanted one like it–”_

_Colin rounds on him in a second, bristling with rage, lips trembling. “I know what I said, and I never said that. How could you even afford it?”_

_Severus barely manages to explain, can only get the words ‘grandparents’ and ‘housewarming gift’ out before Colin explodes._

_“Get rid of that thing! I hate it! Why can’t you ever do anything right? What did I ever do to have to be stuck with you?”_

_As Severus tries to defend himself, his own voice matching Colin’s in volume, he wonders if the neighbours can hear them._

_What they must be thinking of the new tenants, of the young couple who’s barely been here two weeks and is already at each other’s throats._

_The fight ends in hurtful words and slamming doors. At least they don’t hit each other this time._

_Severus sleeps in the guest bedroom. When he comes out the next morning, he finds Colin lounging on the new sofa, claiming that it was such a good idea, that it fits the room perfectly._

_That settles the matter, but as is his habit, Colin never apologises or says thank you._

This could be a morning just like any other, with Colin off somewhere, meeting with potential buyers or spending the afternoon out at the gallery criticising the way his paintings are hanging or just lazing in bed after working late into the night. Severus was always up before him. Colin did his best work at night, but Severus has always been more creative in the morning. Sometimes they wouldn’t even talk for days, simply because their schedules didn’t match up.

Yes, this morning could be one of the thousands he’s spent in this apartment. And there’s a creeping feeling Severus can’t quite name but can’t ignore either. The feeling of something settling quietly, something misplaced being found again.

They’ve never had a telly, but there’s a small radio in the kitchen, which he turns on distractedly before stepping out onto the balcony with his food.

He sits at the small bistro table and looks out at Paris, with its washed-out façades, its contrasts of black windows on white walls and its rain-coloured roofs.

Almost every day for twelve years, every day since he’s moved into this place, he’s had breakfast here when the weather allowed it. Twelve years of looking at this view, of watching sunrises and sunsets over the rooftops.

Colin hated and loved Paris all at once. He loved to hate it. He loved to complain loud and clear about what an unbelievable dump Paris is. But like all born and raised Parisians, he was the first to defend it whenever someone else, an outsider, insulted his beloved city. He owned the right to hate Paris because it belonged to him. To him, Paris was at once the greatest city that ever was and the biggest pain in the arse that could be imagined.

 _Capitale de la douleur_ , he called it. Capital of pain. Like the title of Paul Éluard’s book.

 _He was right about that, at least_ , Colin would say of the poet, with a light smirk.

It’s warm today, warm enough to be outside without a coat on, and it smells like spring. When Severus left, three weeks ago, it was snowing lightly. And yet it feels like he’s been here only yesterday.

Maybe it was all a dream, moving to London, meeting Harry. Maybe he’s imagined it all.

He doesn’t know if he’d rather it be real or imagined.

He eats the whole baguette, surprisingly ravenous despite the terrible hangover. Then he heads into the bedroom, walking in directly through the French doors from the balcony, and he lies down on the bed.

His bed. The familiar softness of the mattress, the comfort of his old pillow, the smell of the laundry detergent.

Home.

Severus closes his eyes.

_Colin is leaning back against the headboard, sheets pooling around his waist, hair still messy from sleep. He’s been silent for a while, slowly leafing through the freshly-printed leaflet._

_“So? What do you think?” Severus asks, unsuccessfully trying to hide his eagerness._

_Colin tosses the manuscript down on the bedspread, as if putting back a trashy magazine he’d been leafing through in boredom while standing in line at Tesco’s._

_“You’re lucky you have a big cock, because this is pure shit,” he announces, avoiding Severus’ eyes as he starts rummaging through the bedside table. “But whatever,” he adds lightly, as if to soothe the burn. “If Gontran wants to publish it, it’s his call.”_

_“Pure shit? Really?” Severus repeats dryly, picking up the pages, feeling anger and humiliation rush through him. “You can be a real prick, you know that?”_

_Colin snorts, lighting up a cigarette._

_Severus hates when he smokes in bed, but it’s a matter they’ve argued over a thousand times, and he knows better than to bring it up again. Colin always gets his way._

_“I’ll stop being a prick when you write something good,” he says moodily._

A knock on the front door makes Severus startle. He’s not sure if he’s really been asleep at all, but the light in the bedroom seems different now.

He drags himself out of bed and reaches the door just as a second series of knocks begins. When he opens it, Loïc is standing on the other side, grinning broadly.

Loïc Mirbeau is seventeen years old. Tall for his age, quickly catching up with Severus, he has sharp brown eyes and a curly mop of sandy blond hair which is always in disarray.

Severus’ unlikely friendship with Loïc has always been a sore spot for Colin, who called it ‘unsavoury’ and couldn’t fathom what a teenage boy could possibly have to contribute to Severus’ life. He’d even once or twice hinted that Severus should just fuck the boy and be done with it.

 _You know you want to_ , he’d say nastily.

Severus always ignored this. Rising to Colin’s taunts only made things worse.

Though he does suspect Loïc might be gay, he knows that the boy has only ever seen him as a father figure of some sort. Whoever Monsieur Mirbeau was, he’d deserted both Loïc and his mother when the boy was a baby. Severus often thinks Loïc probably takes after him, because he doesn’t have much in common with the landlady at all. The explosive arguments between mother and son are a well-known thing amongst the tenants, and Loïc has confided in Severus how eager he is to turn eighteen and move out to live on his own. In the meantime, the boy enjoys talking about books and art with Severus, often sitting down with him at the café across the street some evenings. He always carefully avoided visiting Severus at home when Colin was alive, in an obvious effort to avoid the dark stares and condescending rebukes.

“Good to see you,” Loïc announces in heavily-accented English – always trying to practice his English when talking to Severus – and leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks. “My mom was out earlier, and she saw you on the balcony. I have the boxes you want. Come help me get them out of the elevator.”

“How did you do on that Nietzsche essay?” Severus asks as they unload a bunch of unfolded cardboard boxes from the lift.

“Oh, not too bad,” Loïc says with a grin, which means that he aced it, as always.

If Loïc were a body of water, he would be a clear mountain spring rushing through a valley.

“I can’t believe you’re really leaving,” the boy adds, huffing in frustration as he tries to grab too many boxes at once and they all spill to the floor. “You’ve lived here almost all my life, did you know?”

“Yes, yes, I’m old. There’s no need to remind me,” Severus says coldly, but smiling nonetheless.

Loïc laughs delightfully loudly in the echoing hall. “That’s not what I mean. It just won’t be the same now.” He groans with disgust. “You should see then, the new ones. They’re disgusting. _Newlyweds_ ,” he adds in French.

“They sent me flowers.”

Loïc shakes his head. “Seriously?”

“Red dahlias.”

“Disgusting,” the boy announces.

They carry in the last few boxes. Severus props them up against the wall of the hallway, then looks at Loïc, smirking.

“Let me guess. He’s a journalist? And she’s an interior designer?”

Loïc laughs gleefully. “Shit, you’re good. She’s on television though. Something about fashion. But he writes for _Le Monde_.”

“Ah. Of course, he does.”

“She makes more money than him. I think he’s intimidated by her. She calls him ‘ _mon loup_ ’ and keeps running her fingers through his hair with those long nails. _They look like fucking talons. It makes me shiver_ ,” he finishes in French.

Severus laughs for the first time today.

“ _She loved the place_ ,” Loïc continues, speaking more rapidly now that he’s switched to his native tongue. “ _I could hear her squealing all the way from the first floor when they visited_.”

He falls abruptly silent, now looking at Severus with a sad smile.

“ _It just won’t be the same without you here. Is there anything I could say to make you change your mind? To make you stay?_ ” he asks.

Severus shakes his head, hesitating, but Loïc cuts him off.

“ _Forget it. It’s not fair of me to say this. I’m sorry I brought it up. If you need help packing, I’ve got nothing else to do today. You know where to find me_.”

He nods and then he’s gone, shutting the front door softly behind him.

Once alone, Severus finds some packing tape in a cupboard and gets started putting the boxes together, folding and taping and so on until he has about a dozen of them. But when he’s done, instead of taking things out of the bedroom closet like he’s been meaning to, he just sits down on the bed and stares at the clothes inside.

Some of them are his own. He didn’t bring his whole wardrobe with him to London. But most are Colin’s. He’s already decided he’ll give those away to charity. But he can’t bring himself to touch them.

He stares at the dark red sweater nearest to him. He can feel the fabric without touching it. Soft wool, cashmere maybe. It was a birthday gift.

_“Are you cheating on me?” Colin asks suddenly, picking a piece of lint from his shoulder._

_He’s been quietly scrutinising his reflection in the tall mirror for a while now, and Severus almost jumps when he speaks._

_The question is casual, like he’s just asking if Severus has remembered to pick up milk on his way home._

_“What?” Severus replies once he’s made sure his heart hasn’t stopped beating from shock._

_“You’ve been going out a lot,” Colin remarks. “And Sophie mentioned she saw you leaving the Belmont the other day.”_

_Fucking hell. Fucking Sophie. What the fuck was she doing there anyway?_

_“I met Gontran there for lunch. At the restaurant. He likes the escargots,” he says, internally congratulating himself on his quick thinking._

_Colin laughs, a dry, nasty sound, looking at Severus’s reflection in the mirror._

_“Is that who you’re seeing behind my back? Gontran?”_

_Severus scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”_

_Colin laughs again, more softly, and turns to look at him directly._

_“You’re right,” he says with fondness, but there’s this dry sneer still in his voice. It never really leaves it anymore. “I’m being ridiculous.”_

_He walks up, presses a kiss to the side of Severus’s neck._

_“Who else would want you anyway?” he adds softly before leaving the room._

Severus shakes his head at the memory, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He rubs at his forehead, at his face, hard, trying to get rid of it all.

How did he live alone here for eight months without going mad?

Because he wasn’t living. He was in a haze. He wasn’t letting himself see any of it.

Is this how the whole day will go? With him unearthing bad memory after bad memory with every glimpse at any fucking object within this apartment?

If it is, then Severus is in for an even more miserable day than he’d anticipated.

But they’re not all bad memories, are they? That first one, of the first visit here, that wasn’t a bad memory.

But they were so young then, so fucking young they didn’t know any better than to be happy.

Where did it all go wrong?

Maybe moving in together was their big mistake. They’d been dating for three years before settling into this place. Was that the turning point? The beginning of the end?

Try as he might, Severus can’t pinpoint exactly where things started going wrong. Maybe they were wrong from the very beginning.

What was he thinking? He can’t do this alone.

He should call Constance and ask for her help, but he can’t make her fly all the way here on a whim. It doesn’t matter if she said she didn’t mind, he just can’t make her do that.

Instead, he decides to call Marine, like he’s promised.

And that’s when he realises he’s left his phone at the hotel.

He can picture it on the bedside table, next to the lamp.

It’s not that far, he could go back and get it now. Constance said she’ll call to check up on him. She’ll be worried if he doesn’t pick up, won’t she? He should go back for it.

And yet, there’s a sort of relief that comes with the knowledge that he doesn’t have his phone with him. If he doesn’t have his phone, he can’t pick up if Harry calls, he can’t call Harry back. He doesn’t have to worry about any of this now.

_You fucking coward! You did this on purpose, didn’t you?_

Maybe he did, without meaning to. Subconsciously. Maybe he meant to forget his phone.

He shakes his head, pushing the guilt away. He’ll go get it later. In a bit. For now, he looks through his old address book and calls Marine from the landline. He’s left Paris in such a hurry he hasn’t bothered to get it disconnected.

There’s noise in the background when she picks up – voices, laughter, and conversation. They must be spending the afternoon with Fabrice’s brother’s family, as they usually do on Sundays.

Marine is furious to find out Severus is in Paris and hasn’t told her he was coming, but as soon as he says he needs her, and when she hears the shaking in his voice, all anger vanishes from hers.

“ _I’m on my way_ ,” she assures him. “ _I’ll be there in an hour_.”

He curls up on the bed while he waits, wondering if the phone on the bedside table is ringing at this very moment. And who might be calling if it is.

It doesn’t quite take an hour for Marine to arrive. She must be coming straight from her usual Sunday gathering because she’s wearing a lovely grey dress under her trench coat, and her hair, usually a mess of soft brown waves, if half up in a bun.

In all the years Severus has known her, he doesn’t think she’s once brushed her hair or put on any makeup. Not that she needs to. Marine is naturally, inherently beautiful, in this nonchalant, effortless way only French women seem to achieve.

She’s out of breath, her cheeks flushed, and she’s carrying a canvas bag which, from the clanging inside, appears to be full of bottles.

“ _Your landlady’s son let me in_ ,” she says. “ _Laurent, is it?_ ”

“ _Loïc_ ,” Severus corrects.

His heart swells at the sight of her, and when she sets her bag down on the floor to hug him, he wraps his arms around her at once. Her coat smells of those little cigarillos

Fabrice always smokes.

“ _It’s okay_ ,” she says, her breath soft against his neck. “ _I’m here for you. Anything you don’t want to do, I’ll deal with it_.”

Severus nods, still not letting her go. “ _Thank you_ ,” he whispers. “ _I’ve missed you_.”

“ _I’ve missed you, too_.”

She pulls back to look at him, frowning.

“ _I’m sorry for the last time we talked, for saying you were selfish–_ ”

“ _I shouldn’t have pushed you away_ ,” Severus interrupts. “ _I thought I could do this on my own, but I can’t. I need you_.”

“ _I need you, too, Severus. There’s no shame in wanting help. That doesn’t make us weak_ ,” she says, obviously annoyed at him, at his stupid attempt to be independent and to hide his feelings. But her scolding is comforting nonetheless.

He’s always loved this about her, how she can be soft but fierce all at once.

“ _I brought wine_ ,” she adds, picking the bag up from the floor.

He snorts. “ _Of course, you did_.”

They get started on the bedroom closet. Marine takes care of Colin’s side, folding and piling clothes neatly in boxes. They’ve opened a bottle of red wine and are sharing it, taking long swigs straight from it without bothering with glasses.

Severus had been meaning to go through his own clothes, but he finds himself sitting down on the bed and watching Marine instead.

Sometimes, before folding a jumper or a shirt, she brings it to her face first, breathing in the familiar smell that has yet to fade.

“ _I don’t know what to do_ ,” he says before he can stop himself.

Marine pauses and turns to look at him, her expression suddenly softened.

“ _I wanted to leave all of this behind_ ,” he explains. “ _I wanted to start over, but…_ ”

“ _But there’s no such thing as starting over_ ,” she says quietly. “ _For that, you’d need to erase every single memory. And that’s not happening._ ”

She folds the shirt she’s holding and places it on top of the others in a box before sitting down next to Severus on the bed. He takes her hand and squeezes it.

She knows what she’s talking about. In the summer of 2000, Marine and Fabrice’s six-year-old son drowned in a pond near their summer home in the south of France.

“ _You’re right. I thought going to London would make things better. I thought getting away from all this would help. For a time, I felt like it did, but I was only fooling myself_.”

Marine sighs heavily.

“ _It’s not by throwing away everything that reminds you of your life together that you’ll be happy, Severus_ ,” she says softly, though he knows from the look on her face that she’s trying not to snap at him. “ _It’ll only make you more miserable, because there are days when you’ll be convinced you’re doing fine, but then the smallest thing will happen, and everything will come rushing back. It only makes it worse in the end. You have to learn to live with his absence every moment and accept it_.”

“ _That’s what my therapist used to tell me, all the time. But I think I’m only just starting to understand it now_ ,” he says quietly.

“ _We all suffer_ ,” Marine adds, her pale, blue-green eyes incredibly clear, as if she’s holding back tears. “ _That’s what life does to us, it makes us suffer. But we get over it. Believe me, you will, too. Just don’t try to forget, that’s all I’m saying. That’s all I was trying to say, all this time. I knew you were pulling away. I knew what you were doing, and I knew it wasn’t going to work, because I’ve been there. You’re not supposed to forget, you’re supposed to live on_.”

He nods, heart heavy and throat tight.

Marine opens her mouth to continue, but then she stops, hesitating. She’s quiet for a long time, and when she speaks again, her voice is very soft, almost soothing. As if she’s afraid he’ll get mad.

“ _You remember, at the funeral, you told me that Colin took a big piece of you when he died?_ ”

Severus only nods.

“ _The truth is_ ,” Marine says very gently, “ _I think he took a big piece of you long before that_.”

“ _What do you mean?_ ” he croaks out.

“ _Fifteen years with him, Severus_ ,” she whispers, looking at the box half-filled with Colin’s clothes. “ _I don’t know how you did it_.”

When she turns back to him, he probably looks so bloody dumbfounded that she smiles, humourlessly, and shakes her head.

“ _You and I both know how difficult he could be. How unpredictable and impulsive. On a good day, he was the most attentive, the most loving person. But on a bad day…_ ”

“ _And he had a lot of bad days_ ,” Severus adds. “ _Or maybe that was just me. Maybe I brought out the bad in him_.”

Marine shakes her head moodily. “ _You didn’t_ ,” she snaps. “ _Don’t say that_.”

“ _Okay_.”

“ _I should have talked to you about this sooner, but I think I didn’t want to admit it. He was my little brother. I loved him, despite everything. I suppose I felt protective of him. I didn’t want Colin to be unhappy. I didn’t want you to leave him, but… at the same time, I knew he would never be able to give you what you need_.”

“ _What I need?_ ”

“ _The kind of love you need. The kind of relationship. I don’t know. Colin couldn’t give you that. He had his moments, but… He could be so terrible sometimes… The things he would say… And I always figured he was probably worse with you than with anyone else because you’re–_ ”

“ _I’m what?_ ”

“ _Because you’re someone who just takes it_ ,” she says quietly. “ _I mean, you tend to take things the way they are, without a fight. I thought he probably used that against you_.”

“ _Without a fight?_ ” Severus says dryly. “ _Believe me, we fought. It’s not because you didn’t see it that it never happened_.”

“ _That’s not what I meant–_ ”

“ _I know what you meant_ ,” he snaps.

She meant to call him a coward, that’s what she meant, didn’t she?

But he can’t very well be mad at her for that, because it’s true. He’s someone who just takes it.

“ _I cheated on him_ ,” he adds coldly.

It just slips out, and he knows he’s trying to hurt her with that comment, to get back at her for what she’s just said.

“ _For two years, almost three. Before Colin got sick. I was seeing another man_.”

Marine is quiet for a time, and then she nods. “He told me he suspected it,” she finally says.

“ _Doesn’t it make you mad?_ ”

“ _Why would it?_ ”

“ _He was your brother_.”

“ _And you’re my friend. And I’m sure you had your reasons. Besides, I don’t think he was really hurt by it. Not in the way you’d expect. When he talked to me about it, it almost seemed like he felt… not indifferent, exactly. But like it was inevitable, like he’d brought it on himself_.”

There’s a lot Severus wants to say to that, but he holds his tongue.

“ _I don’t think it mattered to him if you were seeing someone else, as long as you stayed_ ,” she admits carefully. “ _Who was it?_ ”

“ _Étienne Chamoux_ ,” Severus reveals.

No need hiding it now. It’s been over for years.

“ _The photographer? Clément’s friend?_ ” Marine says, aghast. “ _My God, Severus. I would have never guessed. You never talked about him, not once._ ”

“ _My cousin Constance always jokes that I should have been a spy_.”

“ _I thought you only met him that one time at the gallery_.”

“ _We got talking in the loo. He approached me. He knew I was with Colin, so he wanted to be discreet about it. He said he’d like to see me again, if I was up for it, and he gave me his number. I was flattered. It had… been a while, I suppose. Since I felt… noticed. At first, I wasn’t going to do anything about it, but… about a month later, I called him. From a café, not from home. For no reason, I just needed to talk to someone. We met for lunch. Then we went to a hotel. It went on like that for some time. I broke it off when I found out Colin was sick. I haven’t seen Étienne since_.”

Marine shakes her head disbelievingly.

“ _Did you love him?_ ”

“ _I did. At the time_.”

“ _And you never thought of leaving Colin for him?_ ”

“ _No, never_ ,” he lies.

He looks away, certain she knows that he’s lying. But she doesn’t press the issue.

“ _Come on_ ,” she says, coaxing him to his feet. “ _Let’s get this over with_.”

He helps her with the folding and the boxing up of Colin’s clothes, but still something is stopping him from touching his own things, and Severus is starting to suspect that it might be his subconscious trying to tell him something.

He folds and folds. He follows Marine’s advice and lets the memories come, embracing the fragments of Colin’s life, of his life with Colin. The good and the bad.

Because yes, there’s good, too, if he chooses to focus on it. He can even remember it. Colin’s sleepy smiles, his spontaneous laughter at Severus’ jokes. All the long days spent in each other’s company. Years of those. Good moments.

They are there if Severus lets himself remember them.

They were happy once. More than once.

If he keeps remembering this, he might be able to stay here after all.

 _Stay here?_ the quiet, ever-so-familiar voice of his conscience asks curiously. _Are we thinking about this now? What about Harry?_

He tries to put Harry out of his head for now. This isn’t about Harry, this is about him. This is about cleaning up his life, making space for good things to come.

Well, maybe this is about Harry, in a way.

By the time evening comes, they’ve managed to pack up all traces of Colin from the bedroom, the bathroom, and the living-room, taking many breaks to indulge in the wine Marine brought.

Quite drunk by now, Marine has fallen asleep on the sofa when Severus decides to get started on Colin’s studio.

As expected, it’s a goddamn mess.

Colin was, and will surely always be, the messiest person Severus has ever known. Luckily, this habit of never cleaning his shit up was mostly restricted to his studio, where

Severus rarely set foot. Not only because Colin didn’t like anyone glimpsing at his unfinished work, but mostly because Severus just couldn’t stand the constant state of chaos the room was in.

Four months ago, they’d sold all Colin’s unfinished or unsold or hoarded works at a charity auction for cancer research. It was Marine’s idea. Colin would have been completely mortified, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time, and they’d raised a ton of money. There’s no artwork left in the room. Not on canvas, anyway. Severus is glad for it now. That’s one less thing to worry about.

The old easel stands in the middle of the room still, its empty wooden frame casting long shadows on the floor. The sight of it is almost painful. Something about it just tugs at Severus’ heart, so the first thing he does upon entering is fold it gently and prop it against the wall next to a pile of junk. It looks less lonely that way.

Colin’s desk is a mess of discarded paintbrushes, dried up palettes, shrivelled paint tubes and old sketchbooks. Everything is coated in dust or charcoal powder that mars Severus’ fingers at the lightest touch.

He stops and stares. There, on top of it all, is a peculiar sight. A book.

 _Capitale de la douleur_.

How strange. He was just thinking about it earlier today.

Even stranger is the fact that this book belongs to him, and yet he finds it here, amongst Colin’s things. He hasn’t set foot in this room since Colin died. No, even before that. Marine and Fabrice took care of the auction, and when they were done, they closed the door behind them and that was it.

The book must have been here for well over a year, and Severus has never noticed its absence from his bookshelf.

He wipes at the cover, dirty and dusty like all the rest.

There’s a folded piece of paper tucked inside. He pulls it free.

It’s a few pages from the thick pad Colin used for sketching, his handwriting scribbled all over.

_Something strange happened today._

_I was working on a commission for that couple from Malakoff when a bird flew straight into the window. It startled me so much that I made a terrible splotch on the canvas and dropped my brush. There was nothing left of the bird but a spot of red and some feathers on the glass. And that’s what made me realise it. I’ve known for some time, but I suppose I wasn’t willing to admit it until now._

_I’m going to die._

_I curled up on the bed and stayed there for hours. I almost called you to ask you to come home and hold me, but I didn’t. I know you need some time alone, away from me, before it gets too bad. I understand that. I would be the same if our roles were reversed._

_Or would I? It’s hard to say for sure._

_I thought I’d give this writing thing a try because it’s always worked so well for you and I’m not good at saying things. It’s turning out to be quite difficult to put it all down. My thoughts are jumbled and it’s hard to make sense of them. I could blame it all on that fucking tumour, but who knows. This is probably just not my thing. I can’t do this the way I just throw colour on a canvas. There has to be an order to this. I don’t know how you do it._

_I still remember the day we met like it was yesterday. There were flowers hanging outside the shop window and the sun streaming through made little patterns of light on your face. As soon as our eyes met, I knew I’d found something._

_And here we are, fifteen years down the road, and I’m dying._

_I suppose the prospect of imminent death makes you see things differently, because I see life differently now. It’s not the way I thought it was. I don’t see the world the way I did before. I don’t see myself the same either. And you, I see you differently most of all._

_Lately, I find myself wishing I’d never met you. If I could, I would go back to that day. That day in that little bookshop near the Seine, that day we met. And I would never even look at you. I would ignore your face and the flowers and the little patterns of light. I wouldn’t talk to you. I wouldn’t even walk in._

_The truth is, and it’s taken me fifteen years and a brain tumour to come to terms with it, I think you’d be better off without me._

_And the truth is, if our roles were reversed and you were the one dying slowly, I don’t think I would even stick around for it._

_Because I’m small and vain and selfish, and you’re bigger than nature. You feel things so deeply and thoroughly, because you let yourself feel them. And you love. Deeply and completely and selflessly. Something I’ve never known how to let myself do._

_And the truth is, if it weren’t for me, you’d be famous by now. If it weren’t for me constantly putting you down because that’s all I know how to do. Because I can only see other people’s accomplishments as competition. I’m sorry for that. I would take it all back if I could._

_Sometimes I feel like I deserve this cancer. It’s my punishment. For all the selfish things I’ve ever done, for all the people I’ve hurt, for all the terrible things I’ve said. For how I treated you._

_But we had good days, didn’t we? Even now, we still do. Even though they’re further and further apart._

_Yesterday was a good day. You stayed home, and you read me passages from Miron. And you let me rest my head against your chest even though I’d been so terrible to you that morning. And I listened to your voice and your heartbeat._

_I’ll remember that. I swear I will._

_But the thing is, despite everything, I think we were destined to meet, you and I. Like your poet wrote, “There are no coincidences, only encounters.”_

_Another truth is, I think meeting you was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t think anyone would have cared for me the way you did, would have loved me the way you did, with my temper and all my flaws and my many, many imperfections. And I’m sure, beyond any doubt, that no one else but you would have stayed with me through this._

_So, I just wanted to put this in writing, because I’ll never be able to say this to your face. At least, one day you’ll find this, and you’ll know. I can find comfort in that._

_I’ve loved you from the first day. Maybe not the way you deserved, but I did love you. I’ve never deserved you, but you made my life worth living. And I hope you’ll find someone else when I’m gone. Someone who will love you the right way and won’t be afraid to show it._

Severus’ hands are shaking violently by the time he’s done reading, and he can barely make out the last bit through his tears. He grabs onto the desk to keep steady, and he tries to breathe deeply, but everything is coming out in sobs. His heart feels just about ready to burst out of his chest.

_“I’ll die if you ever leave me,” Colin speaks quietly into the darkness._

_Severus has his back to him and pretends not to hear the words. He feels terrible, like he always does whenever they fight and end up having sex because it’s easier than talking. And it’s not even make-up sex because there’s never really any making up with the two of them. They just don’t talk anymore. They’ve never really talked, have they?_

_About anything._

_“I’ll kill myself, I swear I will–”_

_“Shut up. Let me sleep,” Severus whispers, even though he’s not tired in the least._

_He’s tired, but not for sleep. His head and his heart could sleep for years, but his body is still pumping adrenaline and rage._

_“I’m serious,” Colin says, and he sounds like he is._

_“I don’t care. I don’t care if you die. You could die right now, and I wouldn’t give a fuck.”_

_Severus mumbles out the words, with barely any weight behind them. He’s not even sure if he means them or not, they just feel like the thing to say in this moment._

_He won’t let Colin off the hook so easily. Not this time._

_“You don’t mean that,” Colin says simply. “I know you don’t.”_

_“I do. If you were dead, at least I could get some sleep.”_

_Colin’s arms wrap around his torso from behind, and Severus feels lips press a kiss between his shoulder-blades._

_He wants to push Colin away, but he can’t find the strength to._

_Maybe he is tired after all._

_“I’m sorry,” Colin whispers, his breath tickling Severus’ skin. “I’m sorry for being this way. I’m sorry for what you have to put up with. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I mean it when I say I would die if you left me. I know I don’t say it enough, but I love you.”_

_This doesn’t change anything. Severus wants to tell him that, but he doesn’t. He just closes his eyes and pretends he’s fallen asleep._

“ _I loved you, too_ ,” Severus cries out weakly, gripping the desk for support because his legs are shaking, ready to give out.

He’s smearing dirt and dust all over his shirt, but he doesn’t care.

“ _I didn’t mean it_ ,” he pleads to no one. “ _I didn’t mean it. Forgive me_.”

He’s gasping like a dying man, and suddenly he’s on the floor, without knowing how he made it there. His throat is closing in, his heart pounding dangerously.

_No, no, no. Breathe, just breathe. Don’t let it happen!_

But it’s too late. The panic that’s been sneaking up on him all day rushes in like a tidal wave.

 _It’s okay. Don’t think about any of this for now. Just breathe. Everything will be fine. You’ll get through this, you always do. Don’t think about Colin anymore. Don’t! Think about something nice_.

The house in Cornwall. His grandfather’s old wellington boots by the back door. The beach. The cliffs and the piercing cries of the seagulls. His grandmother’s hand holding his steadily as he climbs on the slippery rocks. The sunspots on her knuckles. Long tendrils of hair dancing around her face. Daylight piercing the clouds, coming down in beams far on the horizon. The salty, howling wind.

 _There you go. You’ll get through this. Keep going_.

The tiny attic flat in Oxford. Days and nights spent reading and writing. The first real brush with inspiration. The manuscript of his first book. The view from the small window, rooftops and clouds. The smell of rain and wood vanish. The sound of the typewriter. The boy in his bed, smiling sleepily at him. He can’t remember the name.

Harry. There’s only one name now and it’s Harry’s. It’s Harry in his bed.

Harry’s eyes in the sunlight. Harry laughing, raking a hand through his hair. Harry pressing kisses to his face. Harry’s warm breath on his neck. Harry gasping in pleasure, rocking back against him. Harry moaning as he comes, staring straight into his soul.

That was real. Severus didn’t make this up. It was real.

He breathes more steadily now. Deeper and deeper still.

He should have cleaned up Colin’s studio months ago. How much suffering he would have avoided this way.

It all makes sense now. Colin’s last words. _Severus… I have left you…_

_I have left you a note, in my studio. In that book you love. Please read it. Please. I can die in peace knowing you’ll read it._

Colin knew to borrow his book, to leave the note in there to catch his attention, but he couldn’t know that Severus wouldn’t find it. He couldn’t know that Severus would avoid settling things, avoid cleaning up. That Severus would keep hanging on to all this. To fifteen years of them.

Why? Why couldn’t he let this go?

Because he thought that was it, that’s why. Some part of him thought he would never find anything better, but he was wrong. How wrong he was.

Even Colin knew there was more in store for him.

_Think about Harry. Think about those few days with him. Don’t you want this again? Don’t you want it for the rest of your life?_

He’s going to get through this, then he will find Harry and fix things. There’s no other way. There’s no need to be afraid. He must be brave about this.

If he has to be brave once in his life, let it be now.

He thinks about the courage Harry must have had to muster to tell him about the fire, to show him the scar, to reveal this part of himself to him, this vulnerability. He thinks about what Harry’s had to endure, about the little boy in the cupboard under the stairs, locked away in the darkness, lonely and scared.

Severus thought he’d had it bad. At least he had his mother. Harry had no one.

How unlikely, how astounding that someone who’s been hurt so much could manage to grow into such a beautiful, kind, caring person.

Severus was right to compare him to those magnified grains of sand. There’s no one else like this in the whole world.

_Don’t let this one go, Severus. This thing you found, it’s a gift. God know why it was given to you, but it was. Don’t you dare let it slip through your fingers. You’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it, you know that._

_You think losing Colin was hard? Imagine losing this._

It’s as simple as that, isn’t it? Meeting Harry was life-altering. He can’t possibly pretend that never happened. He can’t possibly go back to his bleak old life of guilt and self-hatred and loneliness now.

Next thing he knows, Severus is getting to his feet and bolting out of the room. He doesn’t even stop to let Marine know he’s going out before he’s bursting out in the hallway and running down the stairs.

In barely any time at all, he’s reached the hotel and is running past reception and straight for the stairs because none of the lifts are available and he doesn’t want to waste one more minute.

His phone is where he’s left it to charge while he showered this morning, and where he’s forgotten it after. Or chosen to forget it.

There’s two missed calls from Constance, but he ignores them.

Harry has called five times. Then, as one last attempt, about an hour ago, he’s sent a text message.

When Severus reads it, it slashes through his heart like a blade.

_Please don’t do this to me_

For the next twenty minutes or so, all Severus does is call. He sits on the bed and calls and calls, letting the phone ring for a long time and then hanging up before calling again. But no matter how many times he calls, Harry doesn’t pick up.

In the end, he walks back to the apartment, clutching the phone in his hand like a lifeline.

When he returns, Marine is still sleeping on the sofa, oblivious to his coming and going. Severus goes to his bedroom and curls up on the bed, clutching the phone still, watching quietly as night settles outside.

He waits.

He doesn’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

Morning dawns. Severus watches its light spread and fill the bedroom slowly.

He knows this process by heart. The early-riser he is has seen this repeated over and over and over. For twelve years. It differs from season to season, and depending on the weather, but it’s always beautiful.

He never tires of it, watching raptly as it happens.

It starts with a strip on the floor, a thin blueish glow near the dresser, barely noticeable unless you’re not looking straight at it but slightly to the left, where there is darkness still.

Later, there’s an orange glow. If the drapes are open, it fills the room slowly, until everything is bursting with light. It subdues as the rising sun shifts for a little while, hiding through the buildings. And when it returns, it’s just bright, pure, warm light, making dust-motes dance softly.

_Colin stirs, hiding his face in Severus’s shoulder. From the exhausted groan that escapes his lips, it’s easy to guess he’s only been in bed for an hour or two. Severus must have been sleeping deeply, because he doesn’t remember Colin joining him._

_"Close the fucking curtains,” Colin moans, wincing at the light._

_Already wide awake, Severus shushes him. “Wait. Look.”_

_Colin raises his head groggily. “What?”_

_"_ _Right there,” Severus says, pointing at a blank spot on the bedroom wall. “Wait.”_

_"What?”_

_"Just wait.”_

_A few seconds later, like Severus knew it would, the sun hits the crystal vase on the dresser, the one holding a bouquet of calla lilies. The light reflecting on the wall creates a large, breathtaking patch of prismatic colours that lasts for twenty seconds or so before fading._

_"Yeah, beautiful,” Colin admits grudgingly, resting his head back against Severus’ shoulder._

_They lie there in silence for a while. Colin’s body is warm against his, and Severus leans into it._

_"I like that about you,” Colin mumbles. “The way you see things. How you notice everything. How fascinated you are by the small details.”_

_Severus scoffs. “It’s a writer’s thing, that’s all. We’re conditioned to notice things, so we can better put them in writing.”_

_It’s Colin’s turn to scoff. A soft huff of breath against Severus’ skin._

_"It’s a writer’s thing,” he repeats, mimicking Severus with a perfect imitation of his accent. “Bullshit. It’s a you thing,” he adds fondly, shifting closer and wrapping both his legs around Severus’ left one._

When did that happen? Why is Severus only remembering this moment now?

Because he wouldn’t let himself remember it until now.

It was so easy, to focus on Colin’s bad side, on all the fights, the cruel words and the stormy arguments. It was easy. It made it easier to deal with Colin’s absence. It made it seem like a good thing, something he could live with.

Severus drags himself out of bed, still clutching his phone.

He’s called Harry a few more times during the night, and still there’s been no answer.

_Look what you’ve done. Look what you’ve gone and fucking done, you bloody coward! I told you! I told you to get your shit together! And now it’s too late and you’ve lost him!_

“Shut up,” Severus whispers into the silence.

He finds refuge in his office, closing the door softly behind him.

This room. This room was his whole world.

Colin wouldn’t come in here much, keeping from it the same distance which Severus kept from his studio. This was his creative space, his haven, the place where he came to think, to hide, to unravel.

He sits at the desk and looks around the room, his gaze straying to the books on the shelves. He can tell their names just by a glimpse at the spines, even from a distance away.

The small sofa is still there, by the window, where he would settle to read or just to rest his thoughts.

Someone’s been in to water the plants because the fern in the corner is thriving and threatening to take over half the room. The sunlight on the leaves casts shadows on the floor. It reminds him of the little patterns of light from Colin’s letter.

He runs his fingers over the typewriter softly. It comforts him, it always has, even on those countless days when he couldn’t write down a single word.

There’s a sheet of paper on it, ready to use. It’s been there for over a year, the same one.

The drought is over now. He never thought he’d sit here and see that day. But he doesn’t write a word.

He has nothing to say this morning. Absolutely nothing.

The apartment phone starts ringing. Reluctantly, Severus leaves his office to go answer it.

Marine groans as he enters the living-room, grabbing a throw pillow and hiding her face into it to block the light and the noise. One of her legs is curled up under her body, the other half-hanging off the side of the sofa, a shoe still dangling from her toes.

She looks such a mess Severus can’t help but snort at the sight of her, eliciting another groan.

He’ll never understand how someone who drinks as often as she does can remain such a lightweight.

It’s Fabrice calling, inquiring after his wife. Marine groans even louder when she hears his loud, booming laughter through the phone while Severus describes her present state.  
Marine drags herself from the sofa while they’re talking, announcing she’ll head home to change and then come back to help Severus finish packing.

“ _I have the worst fucking headache in history and you look worse than I do_ ,” she tells Severus after he hangs up the phone. “ _Did you get any sleep at all?_ ”

He shakes his head.

She grabs his face and kisses him on the cheek softly before opening the front door. “ _Go get yourself some coffee. I’ll see you later_.”

He watches her leave in silence.

He was just about to tell her he’s decided not to go through with it, signing the apartment over. He was about to say he’s decided to come back to Paris for good. He hasn’t said anything, but it was a close thing.

Maybe he should start thinking about the implications of this.

Why would he want to stay in London now? What reason does he have to do that? Now that he’s lost Harry.

_You haven’t lost him, you prick! Just do something about it! Don’t just let it happen. Marine was right, you always just take things without a fight._

“Shut up.”

_Are you going to just give up? Are you going to forget everything just because he’s not picking up his phone? What happened to all those beautiful promises you made him in your head, about protecting him, about being there for him?_

_What happened to loving him?_

Moodily, Severus grabs his keys and heads out the door.

In the lobby, Loïc is sitting on the stairs, rolling a cigarette using a textbook propped up on his knees.

“Good morning,” he says when Severus approaches.

“Is your mother around?”

Loïc shrugs, grimacing.

“Can you let her know that I need more time? I can’t finish this today. I was stupid to think it wouldn’t take long. It’s a mess up there.”

“Need any help?”

“Don’t you have school?”

Loïc shrugs again.

“No, it’s fine,” Severus tells him. “There’s just a lot I have to go through. I’ll probably need a few more days.”

“ _Alright, I’ll let her know. She won’t be happy, but who cares? Not that she ever is, anyway_ ,” Loïc grumbles.

“ _You want to get coffee?_ ”

“ _Nah, I should get going. I’ve got class in about half an hour_.”

Severus heads out alone, almost disappointed. Some company would have helped take his mind off things.

He doesn’t go to the café across the street, for the same reasons as yesterday. To avoid gossip and interrogations and people he might know. Instead, he walks a few blocks, easily picks a café at random, and sits on the terrace, determined to do some intense people-watching to clear his head. He sets his phone carefully down on the table, within easy reach, with the volume turned high.

He’s just started his breakfast with an espresso and a croissant, when someone walks up to his table, casting a looming shadow.

“Severus.”

He recognises the voice instantly, and his heart gives a dangerous lurch as he raises his head to see Étienne standing there, disbelief etched upon his face.

They stare at each other for some time with incredulity.

It’s been well over two years since Severus has set eyes on Étienne, but no matter what’s happened since their last meeting, and no matter the abrupt conclusion of their affair and all the tension behind it, he can’t help the feeling of deep fondness, the tightening in his chest as he looks at his former lover.

“What are you doing here?” Étienne asks, somewhat weakly.

“Having breakfast.”

Étienne snorts. “Obviously. I mean, what are you doing in Paris? I heard you’d moved back to London.”

The waiter walks by, shooting them a nasty glance. Either because Étienne is just standing there and hasn’t ordered anything yet, or most probably because they’re speaking English.

Étienne’s father is Parisian, but his mother is from New York, and he’s spent his whole life moving back and forth between the two cities, and all over the world in between, and speaks both languages completely fluently, with no trace of an accent.

“I’m only here for a few days. Settling some things,” Severus explains.

“So am I. Here for a few days, I mean. Freelance work.”

What are the odds? That they would run into each other, here of all places. Étienne, who’s pretty much permanently settled in New York now and is hardly ever in Paris at all. And Severus, who’s supposed to be here even less, and who’s never set foot in this café before, who’s only here at random.

What a coincidence.

Or is it?

 _There are no coincidences, only encounters_ , as Éluard wrote.

“I’m sorry,” Étienne says softly when Severus doesn’t reply. “I shouldn’t have come over. You look like you’ve seen a ghost–”

“No, no,” Severus insists, shaking his head. “I’m only… It’s just unexpected. I’m happy to see you. Can you sit? Do you have time to talk?”

While he’s settling things, while he’s cleaning up, clearing the slate, why not clean this up, too? This trip is about wrapping things up, isn’t it? How about killing two birds with one stone?

That’s why Étienne is here, isn’t it?

First, the letter. And now this.

Étienne hesitates. He looks so young, standing there almost shyly. Younger than his… what, thirty-two years now? But then he grins, this selfless, crooked grin that Severus loves.

“Of course. I’ll always make time for you, you know that.” He cringes and chuckles in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean–”

Severus smiles. “I know what you mean. Thank you.”

Étienne takes the seat across from him and orders a coffee when the waiter walks by again, switching to French effortlessly, and to the affected and snappy tone he always uses with rude café staff, an all too common thing in Paris.

Étienne is French in a way that shows on his nose and lips, in the way his features seem to settle naturally in some sort of a pout when he’s not speaking. He’s got a thick mop of brown hair, fashionably tousled, longer now than when Severus last saw him, so much so that it curls at the collar of his shirt. His eyes are piercing, almost as dark as Severus’.

Looking at him, Severus remembers exactly what Étienne’s stubbled jaw felt like under his lips, how their noses would brush when they kissed.

Étienne’s lips curl into a soft smile under his stare. He knows exactly what Severus is thinking.

They’ve always been so very similar, the two of them. It’s been obvious from the very beginning. They have the same sense of humour, the same taste in movies, in books. They share the same eye for detail, notice the same things. Étienne’s often said that their brains are wired the same.

And all those long days spent in hotel rooms proved that right.

God, the sex was amazing. A shiver sparks up Severus’ spine at the thought.

And yet, all those days compiled are nothing compared to being with Harry for one night.

Severus averts his eyes, breaking the spell.

“You look good,” he remarks.

“Thank you.”

Étienne is nervous. His hands shake as he lights up a cigarette. Severus is almost tempted to ask for one himself. He doesn’t know what to do with his own hands. There’s only so many times you can move a coffee cup around on a tabletop.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, but you look terrible,” Étienne says after a while.

“It’s okay, I know. I haven’t slept.”

Étienne raises an eyebrow questioningly, but he doesn’t ask.

“I’ve been packing Colin’s things,” Severus explains.

“Oh. Just now?”

“I know, I know. It’s been so long, I should have done it a long time ago–”

“I’m not… That’s not what I…”

They fall silent, not meeting each other’s eyes.

From somewhere in the near distance comes the sounds of someone playing piano from a nearby apartment. A mist of notes.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Étienne says softly. “You take the time you need. I can’t begin to understand… I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Silence falls on them once again, and Severus is reminded of all the times they’ve met like this through the years, in cafés not unlike this one. Étienne reading the paper and him writing, sometimes barely speaking to each other, just enjoying the company.

Étienne reaches for the ashtray, carefully blowing the smoke away. He grabs Severus’ napkin with his free hand before it can be carried away by a gust of wind and sets his plate on the corner of it.

He’s always been like this. Full of small, attentive, soothing gestures.

If Étienne were a body of water, he would be the creek near your childhood home.

“What did you think about the photo?” he asks abruptly, grinning. “You never got back to me.”

“The photo?”

“The one I emailed you, about two weeks ago. With the girl.”

Severus’ heart sinks. “Oh.”

Right. The email Étienne sent him. The one he deleted without opening it. There was something in attachment, a photo apparently.

“You didn’t look at it, did you?” Étienne cringes, embarrassed for him.

“No,” Severus admits. “I was having a bad day. I deleted it.”

Étienne shakes his head, seemingly amused.

“Well, I’m sorry but I don’t care what kind of day you’re having now. You have to see this photo,” he says, reaching for his bag, which he’s set down on a nearby chair, and taking his iPad out from a pocket. “Luckily, I have it on here.”

Severus leans forward, intrigued. “What is it?”

“About a month ago, I went to the Congo with a friend who writes for The New Yorker,” Étienne explains, eyes fixed on the screen, probably browsing though hundreds of photographs. “We met up with some people from an organisation that rescues child soldiers. They have a whole facility there, with therapists, educators, doctors. You should see that place, it’s amazing. We were just walking around one day, children were playing everywhere, and then I saw her.”

He stops, hands Severus the tablet, grinning.

The photograph has a sort of grittiness to it, and the colours have been darkened until they’re almost black-and-white, but the sundress the girl is wearing is discernably bright yellow, contrasting with her dark, flawless skin.

She looks to be about fifteen years old, tall and thin, with her hair cut short. She’s got beautiful, wide eyes, but is looking towards the camera with a somewhat wary expression and a distinct hardness to her features. She’s sitting barefoot on the front steps of what looks like a small, modest schoolhouse. In her hands, she’s holding a book, which she’s obviously been immersed in moments before. Severus’ breath catches in his throat when he recognises the cover as the French edition of _Silhouettes_.

“Her name is Nada,” Étienne announces. “The people I was with said she’d only just learned to read, but she was already so much more advanced than all the other children they had to bring in new books just to keep her busy. I asked if I could sit with her and she said okay, only for a little while. I could tell she was on guard. She was cautious around adults. Around men, especially.

“I asked if she liked the book. She said she loved it, that she’d read it about twenty times already and her favourite poem was ‘Solstice’. I told her I knew the man who wrote it, that he lived in Paris and he was my friend. I told her he had just lost someone he loved very dearly, and I asked if I could take her picture because I thought seeing her reading his book would make him happy. She said okay.”

Étienne stops, waiting for Severus to say something, but he can’t stop looking at the photo.

“I wanted to have it framed and send it to you, but I didn’t have your address in London–”

“Can you email it to me again? Please?”

When Severus finally raises his head from the tablet, Étienne is smiling softly.

“Of course. Give it here.”

Severus hands him back the iPad reluctantly and watches as he sends the photo. His phone chimes as he receives it a few seconds later.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Are you waiting for a call?” Étienne asks. “You keep glancing at your phone.”

“Oh. No, it’s fine. I’ve just been trying to reach someone since yesterday. It’s nothing important,” Severus explains, trying not to appear flustered.

Nothing important. Right. Who is he trying to fool? Étienne has always been able to see right through him.

And indeed, Étienne looks at him in a contemplative sort of way, seemingly pondering whether to delve further or to let it go.

“How are things in London?” he finally asks.

Severus sighs, shaking his head. “To be completely honest, I’m not sure going back was such a good idea,” he admits.

“How so?”

“It’s complicated. I was only trying to avoid things here. And now coming back here feels like trying to avoid things there.”

“I must admit I was surprised when I heard. You’ve always been more Parisian than I am. It didn’t feel right, the thought of you leaving.”

Severus only nods. “It wasn’t the first time I’ve thought about leaving,” he reveals slowly, throat dry.

“What do you mean?”

“I was going to follow you to New York.”

Étienne looks straight at him, his dark eyes darting to Severus’ face with surprise. But he doesn’t say anything.

“The day Colin told me he was sick, I was about to leave him,” Severus adds. “I was going to New York to find you.”

“The very day?”

“Yes.”

Étienne nods slowly as the implications sink it, then he lets out a shaky breath.

“Life is unfair,” he remarks at last.

“It is.”

“I loved you, you know,” Étienne says suddenly, carefully looking away, his eyes instead following a group of chattering tourists as they round the corner.

Severus nods, his throat tight and raw. “So did I,” he breathes out.

“I’ve always liked to think that if we’d met earlier… maybe before you met Colin, we could have been good together.”

“Yes.”

Étienne grins at him. “But then again, when you first moved here I was just thirteen, so maybe not.”

They both laugh quietly.

“Are you seeing anyone now?” Severus asks after a while. “Not that I… I’m not asking because–”

“I know. And I’m not. Not at the moment.” Étienne crushes what’s left of his cigarette into the ashtray before adding, “I thought I’d focus on my career for now. See what comes of it.”

“Really? Last year, I heard you got engaged.”

Étienne groans, shaking his head vehemently. “Yeah, that didn’t last. I don’t know what I was thinking. She wasn’t for me.”

Severus grins. “Clearly.”

“Don’t you fucking start,” Étienne says darkly, but there’s laughter in his eyes.

They chuckle. Étienne reaches into his pocket to take out another cigarette.

“You’ve had it easy with your family being so supportive,” he tells Severus. “You don’t know my mother. She kept pestering me. She really wants grandkids. And I was… I wasn’t sure what to do with myself, after you.”

Severus looks away. He can’t stand the sight of the barely-perceptible tremor in Étienne’s hands as he lights his second cigarette.

“I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty or anything. I only mean that it was a rough patch for me. And when my mother introduced her and we sort of hit it off, I thought… I just thought I’d give it a try,” Étienne explains. “It didn’t go very well. She was beautiful and… smart… talented and everything. But…”

“But the cock wants what the cock wants,” Severus whispers.

Étienne guffaws.

“Well said,” he announces, once he’s managed to stop laughing. “Very poetic.”

Severus laughs quietly. Silence falls again.

“And you? Are you seeing anyone now?” Étienne asks carefully.

“Actually, I met someone, in London,” Severus says then, before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t–”

But Étienne is smiling genuinely. “I’m happy for you, Severus. Really. Tell me about him.”

“Well, he’s… younger than me. Much younger.”

“Younger than me?” Étienne inquires, curious now.

“Much, yes.”

Étienne raises an eyebrow, taking a long sip of coffee. “Legal, though, right? I mean you’re almost famous. I don’t think your eminent career could survive such a scandal.”

Severus scoffs. “Of course, legal. He’s nineteen.”

“Nineteen? Oh, Severus, you pig!” Étienne snorts with a bout of laughter. “Where the hell did you meet a nineteen-year-old kid? In a nightclub?”

“Through a… a friend,” Severus stutters, certain he’s blushing now. “An old acquaintance who’s a professor. Harry is a former student of his.”

Étienne shakes his head, but he only looks surprised, not angry or judgmental. “Jesus Christ, Severus,” he whispers.

“He might be young, but he doesn’t seem like it. I mean, if you talked to him… I have conversations with him I can barely have with scholars my own age. He’s so smart. He likes Proust and Russian cinema. And he’s a violinist. He’s so talented.”

Étienne grins. “Kid deserves a medal just for the Proust thing. He must be something very special to cause the great Severus Prince to gush like that.”

“The way I feel about him, it’s… I can’t explain it. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.”

“He’s lucky then.”

Severus stops. Étienne is looking away now, avoiding his eyes.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, thinking long and hard about what to say next and how to say it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the past lately,” he starts softly. “About mistakes, and things I would do differently. Étienne, I want to apologise for–”

“Don’t,” Étienne interrupts, reaching across the table to take Severus’ hand gently. “You don’t have to apologise for anything, Severus. I understand. I was never mad at you, not even for a second.”

He pauses, letting Severus’ hand go and looking around in silence, watching the passers-by. Severus doesn’t dare speak, only looks at him, heart heavy.

“I never had any ideas,” Étienne continues quietly. “Or any expectations. I want you to know that. I never thought we were more than what we were. I never allowed myself to think that. I knew you loved Colin. I can’t pretend I ever understood how you two worked, but that was not my business. You loved him, and that’s what matters. You’d been together for years, you were living together, sharing a life. What you and I had, it was good, but it was never meant to be. When you told me it was over, it hurt, but I understood–”

“I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for it to–”

“I know. And to know that you cared enough for me to come to New York, that means a lot. But you must know you would have never been able to live with yourself if you’d left him then. You know that. There was no other way.”

“You’re right, there wasn’t,” Severus admits. “And no matter what I choose to believe, I don’t think I would do things any differently if I could go back. I just wish… What we had, it deserved better than to end with a phone call. I’m sorry for that.”

“I’d say you’re forgiven, but there’s nothing to forgive.”

Étienne sits back into his chair lazily, a soft, almost melancholic smile on his face.

“You’re the best person I know, you know that?” he adds after some time. “I’m lucky to have had you in my life, even for a brief time. I would never take any of it back. It was all worth it. And I hope we can stay in touch. I very much want that.”

“Me too.”

“And I want to meet this Harry,” Étienne insists. “I need to see this kid for myself.”

“Of course.”

 _If it comes to that_ , Severus thinks.

They’re silent for a time afterwards. Next table over, the waiter starts arguing with a group of women and they share a grin as they listen to the conversation.

“I’m glad I saw you,” Étienne says with a sigh, turning his face towards the sun, which has just appeared from behind a building. “It’s going to be such a beautiful day,” he remarks, closing his eyes.

Just then, Severus thinks maybe he still loves him, but it’s probably just the way he looks in the light.

Instead of going back to the apartment afterwards, he finds himself walking around aimlessly, or so he thinks. It’s only when he stops that he realises he’s been heading somewhere all along.

Colin didn’t want to be buried. He dreaded the idea of his body being hollowed out and his corpse exposed for all to see before being sent away to rot in the ground. He had nightmares about it. They’d decided he would be cremated instead. Severus had asked, toward the end, if he wanted his ashes spread somewhere nice, but Colin had said no, that the columbarium was good enough for him.

Severus hasn’t been here yet. Nearly nine months have passed, and he’s never set foot inside. He’s been shown pictures of the plaque when asked to choose the font and the colours, but he’s never actually seen the final product.

It’s beautiful. Silver on dark marble.

They’d argued over adding a quote, but Colin wouldn’t agree with anything, so they just left it blank, except for his name and the dates, delicately engraved.

 _Colin Fauve_  
_11 juin 1975 – 5 juillet 2012_

Severus presses his hand on the plaque.

“ _Hello_ ,” he whispers. “ _Sorry for not coming sooner. I suppose I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think I would ever be ready, but I’m here now_.”

He stops, taking a deep, trembling breath. He’s nervous. He’s talking to no one and yet he’s nervous.

“ _I found your letter yesterday. I remember it, too, the day we met. I even remember the shirt you were wearing. An oversized atrocity, denim, folded at the elbows and all stained with paint. But it suited you…_ ”

The grief fills him then, unexpectedly. A wave of sudden warmth, like a fever. Like his mother wrapping him in a blanket she’d just held over the wood stove.

“ _I don’t know at what point we started to enjoy hurting each other. It wasn’t just you. I played a part in it, too. I should have tried harder. I’d given up on us, I’d stopped believing we could fix it. The day you told me you were sick, I was going to leave you. And I was furious because I couldn’t leave anymore. And I felt like you’d gotten sick on purpose, just to make me miserable because you knew it would make me stay. And when you died, part of me was glad. Not just because you’d suffered so much, but because without you, I was finally free…_ ”

He’s pressed his forehead against the silver plaque, whispering, as if afraid the other dead people might hear and judge him.

“ _But I loved you_ ,” he chokes out. “ _I loved you. I still do. I’ll love you always. And I should have stayed home instead of hiding from you. I should have stayed and held you when you were scared. I’m sorry._

“ _And I remember that day you swore you wouldn’t forget. I remember it, too. I remember how you kept asking me to read that same poem, over and over again. I remember the feel of your body against mine. And how you fell asleep and I had promised to go and meet some friends, but I didn’t because I didn’t want to wake you_.”

He stops for a moment, trying so hard to stop the tears that he ends up gasping for air.

“ _The truth is, I remember you all the time, even if I refuse to let myself admit it. I remember you in everyone I meet, in every face I see. And I remember that I loved you. I tried to only see the bad things, because I thought it would make it easier. I thought it would help me forget my guilt, but it didn’t. You were the first person I’ve ever loved. From now on, I promise I’ll never try to forget you again._

“ _All those times we were afraid to let ourselves feel_ ,” he whispers, “ _all the things we never told each other, all the ways we loved each other wrong, I’ll swear I’ll never make those mistakes again. I swear I’ll do things right from now on. I swear it_.”

He presses a kiss to the silver plaque, on the spot where in his mind he imagines Colin’s heart would be. And when he leaves, he doesn’t look back. Everything that needed to be said has been said.

He calls Marine from the taxi.

“ _Where are you?_ ” she demands as soon as she picks up. “ _I started on the studio, I hope you don’t–_ ”

“ _Can you do me a favour? Tell Madame Mirbeau I’ve changed my mind_.”

“ _What?_ ”

“ _I’m keeping the apartment. But I’m not going back there today. I need to head to London now. It’s an emergency. There’s someone I have to see_.”

“ _Wait, wait, wait! What’s happening? What changed your mind?_ ”

She sounds completely astonished, but he can tell she’s exhilarated by the news.

“ _I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later, okay? I really have to go. Thank you, Marine_.”

“ _Well, you’re welcome I guess_.”

“ _Oh, the couple who were supposed to take the apartment. Would you send them flowers for me? As an apology. I’m sure the landlady has their address. Find something ostentatious_.”

She laughs. “ _I’m on it_.”

Severus asks the driver to wait while he goes to the hotel to check out and pick up his things, and then he’s on his way to the airport.

The flight from Paris to London is barely an hour, but it feels like the longest hour of his life. He’s so impatient to fix the mess he’s created that he can’t even find it in himself to be nervous about the plane.

It’s about three in the afternoon when he reaches Grimmauld Place and he knocks on the door insistently, heart pounding violently in his chest.

The girl who opens is one he’s never seen before. Tall and beautiful, with long red hair. She’s dressed in joggers and a baggy jumper with the Hoggarts crest on it, and she blinks at him as if she’s just woken up from a nap even though it’s the middle of the day.

“Is Harry home?” Severus asks, trying to peek into the hallway behind her for any sign of one of the housemates.

She frowns. “No.”

“Do you know where I can find him? Is he at work? I really need to talk to him, and he’s not answering his phone–”

“Are you Severus?” she asks coldly.

“Yes.”

She shakes her head, crosses her arms and looks him up and down.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asks after a while, softly, as if Severus has personally done her harm. “You’re lucky my brother’s not here.”

“You’re Ron’s sister? Jenny?”

“Ginny,” she snaps.

“Listen, there’s been a misunderstanding. Please, I need to talk to Harry. Is he at work?”

“I don’t know,” she says moodily. “He might be. I’m not his bloody secretary.”

He doesn’t have time to say any more before the door slams shut.

Severus walks to the tube, his heart in his throat, still holding his carry-on from the trip to Paris with shaky hands.

He’s got a bad feeling about this. He’s been trying to ignore it, but it’s not going away. It’s only getting worse.

_Please. Please let Harry be okay. Please let me find him, make him listen. Give me a chance to fix this._

He makes his way to _Flourish & Blotts_ in a haze and spots Dana as soon as he walks in. But his relief at seeing her is short-lived. The look on her face confirms his fears at once.

“Is Harry here?” he asks.

She cringes uncomfortably, then turns back to the books she’s been rearranging on a display table, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh, uh… no. I’m sorry. He got sacked.”

“When?”

“This morning,” Dana says in a low voice. “He was scheduled yesterday but he never showed up. Never even called. Then he showed up this morning, looking like shit, like he hadn’t slept all night, like he was high on something. Roger asked him to explain, he told Roger to fuck off. Then Roger said to get his shit and never come back, that he’d had enough…”

She trails off. She’s been arranging and rearranging the books back and forth without really paying attention to what she’s doing.

“What the fuck happened?” she asks, finally turning to him.

“We had a… a misunderstanding. I’ve been trying to call him, but he’s not picking up his phone.”

She snorts dryly. Then she lets out a deep sigh, shaking her head. “I see. He’s back with that Draco prick, isn’t he? Makes sense now.”

No… No, no, no, no… She can’t be right…

_Of course, she can be. You suspected it, didn’t you? Why are you so surprised? You brought this on yourself._

“Do you know where–?”

“Look, Severus, I’m sorry but I have work to do,” she says softly. “The boss is in a mood today. We’ve all been trying to keep a low profile. If you’re not here to buy a book, there’s not much I can do for you.”

He nods. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He must look a total mess, out on the street, just standing there, practically struggling to hold his panic in check.

He calls Harry, but still there’s no answer.

He calls again, still no answer.

Not knowing what else to do, he makes his way back to Grimmauld Place. Maybe Harry’s home by now. And if he isn’t, there must be someone else who knows where he is. He has to be somewhere.

Yes, he’s somewhere. He’s with Draco.

When Ginny opens the door this time, he has to jam his foot in the opening to stop her slamming it shut again.

“Please. Please, Ginny. I need to see him–”

“Fuck off!” she sneers, pushing on the door, struggling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him! It was a misunder–”

He has to stop calling it that. There was no misunderstanding.

“I fucked up, okay?” he tells her desperately. “I fucked up! I need to talk to him. I need to explain. I want to fix it!”

He must sound incredibly hopeless because she stops pushing her weight against the door and just stares at him.

“We don’t know where he is,” she says finally. “He had a row with Ron last night and he stormed off. No one’s seen him since, and he’s not picking up his phone–”

“Where’s Ron? I’ll talk to him.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea–”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to? Is Kim here, or Tamlyn?”

“No, there’s no one. Only me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, backing off from the door, suddenly aware that maybe he’s scared her a little by acting this way. “I just want to explain. How about Hermione? I want to speak to her.”

“She went back to Oxford.” Ginny hesitates then adds, “She’ll be back the day after tomorrow. She’s coming home with us for Easter.”

“I need to see her now. Please, where can I find her? Where in Oxford? Do you know where she lives?”

Ginny shakes her head, clearly troubled by his display of distress now. “I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Please, anything.”

She bites her lip, seems to debate whether this is worth the trouble, then finally, grudgingly, she says, “Oxford University Press. She works in the bookstore.”

“I know where it is!” Severus tells her. “Thank you!”

She yells something after him, but he’s not quite sure what. He’s too far away already.

He books train tickets on his phone. He’s got about an hour or so before he needs to head to the station, so he goes home to fix himself up. If he looks as terrible as he feels, surely a shower and a shave will do him no harm.

He keeps calling Harry. Over and over, letting it ring for a long time before hanging up and trying again. If he calls enough, he tells himself, Harry will tire and pick up.

It must be the twentieth call or so, when suddenly the ringing stops.

Severus pauses his pacing, stands frozen in the middle of the living room, his heart beating so hard his entire body trembles with it.

There’s a few seconds of silence and then a voice says, so low it’s almost gentle, “You gonna stop calling or what? He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Severus’ breath catches in his throat.

“Give Harry the phone,” he tells Draco, shaking with anger.

“He can’t talk right now,” Draco whispers. “He’s sleeping…”

He chuckles then, two soft huffs of breath that pierce through Severus’ chest.

“Or passed out. I’m not sure…”

The anger stirs inside him, scorching, twisting, boiling. Anger such as he’s never felt before.

“What did you do?” Severus chokes out.

Draco snorts softly. “Me? I didn’t do anything. It all happened like I told you. He came to see me. He was furious, accused me of telling you lies. I told him I never lied to you, that I only ever told you the truth, that you were bound to find out anyway. I was just saving you the trouble of digging, saving him the trouble of having to break it to you. I said that if you really cared about him, none of it would matter anyway. But then he was calling you, and you weren’t picking up.”

“That’s not… That’s not why…” Severus stammers, but then Draco is laughing again, barely audible, just a few gasps of glee.

“You made it so easy to prove my point. I was right, wasn’t I? Not so perfect is he, once you know some old creep’s had his hands all over him when he was a kid? Figured you wouldn’t want anyone’s used goods, a perfect gentleman like you. But I don’t mind used goods. I don’t mind at all…”

Severus swallows painfully. The lump in his throat is like a hot piece of coal.

“If I ever see you again, I swear I’ll kill you…”

He’s about to keep going, to explain to Draco exactly what’s going to happen to him, exactly what’s coming for him if their paths cross again, when there’s a sound at the other end of the phone.

A moan, sleepy and confused. And then a soft voice, barely coherent.

“– you talking to?”

“No one,” Draco says gently, sounding suddenly distant.

Severus’ heart freezes in his chest. He wants to cry out Harry’s name, but his voice is stuck in his throat.

He’s expecting Draco to hang up on him now, but instead he hears a sharp sound, the phone being set down. On a bedside table, maybe.

“You wanna go again?” Draco’s voice asks coaxingly.

There’s a mumbled reply, something Severus can’t completely make out, but it sounds reticent, bewildered. He only catches the last two words.

“…so tired.”

The sound of Draco’s chuckles ignites red hot lava in the pit of his stomach.

“Shh… You’re okay. You can take it. Come on, just roll over…”

There’s an unhappy groan, and then a moan, half pleasure, half pain.

“Yeah…” Draco gasps. “That’s it… Fuuuck. Yeah… you like that?”

Severus hangs up, dry sobs of anger escaping his throat. He clutches the phone, hands trembling, doing everything in his power not to hurl it at the wall.

 _You’re someone who just tends to take things the way they are without a fight,_ Marine said.

Well, not this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the quote by Éluard that I mention in this chapter. “There are no coincidences, only encounters.”
> 
> The original French goes “Il n’y a pas de hasard, il n’y a que des rendez-vous.” The translation is the official one I could find but I’m unhappy with it because I find it loses some of the meaning behind it. I wanted to talk about it here a little since I had nothing to put in the end notes this time.
> 
> The word “hasard” in French does not really translate to “coincidence”, not for me at least. We have a word for coincidence and it’s “coïncidence.” To me hasard is more like chance. If you meet someone “par hasard” you meet them by accident, by chance. You just happened to be at the same place at the same time. No big deal. I’ve always seen the word “coïncidence” as implying something more remarkable, something to do with fortuity, something closer to fate.
> 
> As for the word “encounter” in my opinion it has nothing to do with the French word “rendez-vous.” An encounter is something that happens by chance, something unplanned. A rendez-vous is a meeting. Usually planned. An appointment.
> 
> “Il n’y a pas de hasard, il n’y a que des rendez-vous” means there is no such thing as chance, that everything is planned.
> 
> Sorry about the babbling. xx


	6. severed parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s just so hard. Why does everything have to be so hard all the time? Of course, no good thing ever comes easy, but why can’t this one? Just this one...This is what Sartre meant when he wrote that beginning to love is hard work, that you have to have energy and blindness, that there’s a moment when you have to jump across a precipice. This is it for Severus. This is the precipice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost it, my lovelies. Only one more chapter left!
> 
> Once again, this was a wild ride, and once again, it took longer than I expected. But hey, that’s life isn’t it. Full of little setbacks. Chapter 7 is mostly written, so hopefully it’ll be up faster, hopefully. I seem to be saying that a lot.
> 
> I hope you’ll like this chapter. Feel free to visit me on Tumblr (liladiurne). I sometimes post sneak peeks of upcoming chapters, if that’s the sort of thing that interests you. Also feel free to comment on this chapter, or previous ones if you want. I love feedback! Who doesn’t?
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND EDITED ON 02-11-18.

* * *

 

-6-  
**severed parts**

 

 _How do you go back to being strangers_  
_with someone who has seen your soul?_

NIKITA GILL

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, just before a tsunami hits the coast, the strangest thing will happen. If the first part of the wave cycle to reach the shore is the trough, then the water all along the shoreline recedes dramatically, often back hundreds of meters, laying bare large parts of the ocean floor, stranding all sorts of sea animals.

This phenomenon, known as _drawback_ , can last a few minutes or mere seconds. If you’re standing near the shore or on the beach, it can be the only warning of impending danger. It means the wave is coming, gathering strength. It means it’s time to run.

This morning, if Severus were a body of water, he would be an ocean receding.

He hadn’t taken into consideration, when he took the train to Oxford yesterday, that by the time he arrived, the bookshop might be closed. Or that he might have to wait until morning for it to open again.

He’s not even sure if Hermione will be there today. He’s not sure of anything, and Ginny didn’t really seem to be sure either – or to even care, for that matter. But it’s all Severus has. If there’s the slightest chance he might be able to talk to Hermione, and that she might help him get through to Harry, he’ll take it.

He’ll take anything at this point.

At first, he thought about booking a room for the night, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d be able to sleep, and he didn’t want to have to stay cooped up all night, pacing, trapped with his own thoughts. He could have tried to get in touch with some of his old Oxford buddies, but chances that any of them would still be around here somewhere are slim. And truthfully, he’s never cared enough about them to drop in after almost twenty years.

He’d ended up walking around town for a while, trying to lose himself to the memories of his time spent here, when he’d finally stumbled upon a cozy little coffeeshop open twenty-four hours, where he’s found refuge.

It’s just slightly past four in the morning now. Still five hours to go until the bookshop opens. Five hours until he finds out if coming here was worth anything at all.

He’s chosen a small booth in the corner, by the window, where he can look out at the empty, quiet street. It’s a four-seater, but he doesn’t feel the least guilty for monopolising it. There’s very few patrons at this hour. A young couple is sipping coffee at a table on the opposite side of the room. At the counter, there’s a man in his fifties reading yesterday’s paper, looking like he’s just woken up and is getting ready to head to work on an early morning shift.

And then there’s a young man, two booths from Severus’, poring over books and notes and typing away on his laptop.

He got here a little after midnight, and Severus has been watching him emotionally collapse for the last few hours. They’ve made eye contact a few times – whenever the boy lifts his head to look around in desperation, Severus shoots him a sympathetic look. It’s not in his habit to care about strangers’ woes or try to comfort them, but he’s trying to establish some sort of connection. This way it won’t look completely inappropriate when he approaches the boy later. Obviously, he’s working on an essay or some sort of schoolwork…

Honestly, Severus doesn’t really care what the boy is up to. He’s got ulterior motives.

It’s raining outside. He watches the droplets on the window shine yellow, then red, then green, over and over, as the lights turn at the intersection.

It’s raining. Like on the night he met Harry.

If he closes his eyes, Severus can remember it all.

 _You heading for the tube? We can walk together._ The smell of rain on the cold air. The darkened street and the sight of Harry’s face shining like a beacon under the street-lamps. The sound of the lighter, sharp and sudden, like breath catching in his throat. And the smoke. The smoke blowing from Harry’s delicious, alluring, life-defining mouth.

Where’s Harry now?

Severus has been trying to stop his thoughts from going there, but they always do. Inevitably. Like the tongue constantly prodding at a chipped tooth, lingering on the sharp edges and coming back to them again and again.

He’s imagined all of it. The dark room and the messy bed, sheets half hanging off the sides, and Harry’s body sprawled across the mattress. Somehow, he keeps picturing skin littered with bruises. Why must he always twist the knife in his own wound?

But he can’t picture Draco in this scene – a small consolation, perhaps. In his head, Harry is alone right now. Draco has taken what he wanted and left him. And Harry is hurt and cold and alone in the dark.

He imagines the phone is on the bedside table. It buzzes every now and then, but Harry ignores it, again and again. Or maybe the battery’s dead by now, but Severus can’t bring himself to imagine such a terrible thing. Because if the phone can’t ring, then he’s truly lost Harry. If the phone can’t ring, then Harry can’t know that he’s still here, that he hasn’t given up. As long as he can call, there’s still hope that Harry will give in and pick up.

There’s still hope. Severus is lost at sea, shipwrecked, but he can see land on the horizon. It’s small but it’s there, miles and miles and miles away. He just needs to reach it. And he’ll keep swimming until he does.

But it’s no easy thing, this swimming. Not only is he seriously, dangerously sleep-deprived, he’s also emotionally exhausted. Thoroughly so. He feels faint, terribly light, like he might just be carried away by the slightest gust of wind. Like he might evaporate or disintegrate into dust. He’s ready to collapse at the next blow. He’s not sure he can take much more of this. But he won’t give up. He can’t.

He keeps swimming.

It’s just so hard. Why does everything have to be so hard all the time?

Of course, no good thing ever comes easy, but why can’t this one? Just this one.

This is what Sartre meant when he wrote that beginning to love is hard work, that you’ve got to have energy and blindness, that there’s a moment when you have to jump across a precipice.

This is it for Severus. This is the precipice.

He rubs at his face, breathing in and out shakily. In and out, deeper and deeper.

He’s been on the verge of panic for the last twelve hours. It’s right there, just hovering, and yet it doesn’t come. On the verge of panic, on the verge of tears, and on the verge of rage. His throat is raw with the effort of holding back all the anger. This state of fragile equilibrium has brought him a numbing, maddening headache that coffee doesn’t soothe in the least, but he keeps drinking nonetheless. It’s the only thing that keeps him going.

_Shh… You can take it… Come on, just roll over…_

Severus hides his face in his hands, breathing deeper still, swallowing around the wave of anger that rocks through his whole body, so strong it’s nauseating.

_Don’t think about that. Don’t think about that._

_Yeah… That’s it… Fuuuck. Yeah… you like that?_

Always, no matter where his thoughts go drifting, his mind comes back to this. The chipped tooth again.

It’s been that way for hours now. A broken record. Draco’s voice taunting him.

And so, slowly but surely, the water inside Severus’ chest is receding, the wave building strength.

He was serious when he threatened Draco. It scares him, but he meant it. He wants to wrap both hands around the boy’s throat and watch as he chokes. He wants to see the fear, watch the life slowly go out of his eyes. He would enjoy every fucking second of it.

But above it all, above the taunts and the anger, it’s Harry’s broken moan that keeps coming back to him.

Severus can hear it still, as clear as the first time. The soft gasp right before, like breath catching, like the beginning of a cough. And then a sort of whimper, barely perceptible, before it turns into a full moan.

But no matter how many times he hears it, remembers it, it remains completely undefinable. Although he’s analysed it over and over, tried to decrypt its meaning, it fails, again and again, to give him answers.

Was that the sound of Harry in pain? Of Harry being used? Or was it simply Harry forgetting him, getting over him? Was it the sound of Harry letting him go, deciding that he’s not going to waste one more second mourning what they’ve had, however glorious?

It’s imprinted on Severus’ memory, that moan. So much so that he’s convinced he might keep hearing it until the day he dies. So much so that he’s forgotten all the other sounds Harry’s ever given him. All those delicious sighs and gasps that once graced Severus’ bedroom, Severus’ life, gone. Vanished. There’s only silence now. And in the middle of it, this one distressed moan that tears at his heart every time.

A sharp noise snaps him out of his thoughts, and Severus looks up.

The boy in the nearby booth has shut his laptop abruptly and is now resting his forehead on the closed lid, half mumbling profanities, half groaning in distress.

Panic suddenly tugs at Severus’ sleeve.

_Quick! He’s about to leave! Go talk to him now!_

He grabs his coffee, slides out of his seat, and makes his way to the boy.

“Everything okay?” Severus asks, in his most compassionate tone, doing his best to adorn his face with a friendly smile when the boy lifts his head slowly.

He’s tall, even sitting down, and has an athlete’s physique – from rugby or rowing? Surely something of that sort. He’s got golden brown hair, short and messy, and a sort of golden complexion also.

Severus knows this type of skin well. He’s seen it enough times on the many rich schoolmates who’d spend every holiday lazing about on yachts or sailboats, wearing boaters, polo shirts and white shorts, chatting up busty blondes and drinking priceless whisky from dad’s minibar.

Except this kid isn’t interested in chatting up busty blondes. Severus guessed as much from the moment the boy walked in, spotted him, and gave him a quick and subtle once over.

As he peers up at Severus now up close, he blushes.

Definitely gay, then. And with a thing for older men, maybe?

Severus fully intends to use this to his advantage.

“Yes, sure. Fine,” the boy says so quickly it sounds almost snappish. He blushes even more then, and shakes his head. “Well, not really,” he admits. “I’m sort of falling apart, actually.”

“End of term will do that to you,” Severus says sympathetically. “Fresher?”

The boy grins in a mix of amusement and embarrassment. “What tipped you off? Was it the blatant aura of desperation around me?”

He rakes a hand through his golden hair as he speaks, slowly, as if to draw Severus’ attention to the movement.

He’s flirting already. Good God.

If anyone had ever told Severus, when he was a teenager, that he would one day manage to make boys like this one blush, he would have pissed himself with laughter.

He does his best to chuckle.

_Imagine you’re talking to Harry. Imagine everything is right in the world and it’s Harry making you laugh._

“Nothing like that,” he says in a tone he hopes is somewhat heartfelt. “Just thought you looked about the right age. What are you studying?”

“Classics,” the boy announces. Then, surely noticing the surprised tilt of Severus’ eyebrows, he snorts and adds, “Yeah, yeah, I know. You were expecting Finance or Business or something like that, weren’t you? Sorry to disappoint. Oh, do you want to sit?”

Severus pretends to hesitate. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

But the boy gestures to the seat across from his. “No, please. I could use a break.”

Severus nods gratefully and sits, setting his coffee down on the table.

“Are you a professor?” the boy asks curiously.

Severus frowns. “Why? I look the right age?”

The boy blushes again. Despite himself, Severus can’t help but think it suits him, this bashful look. He wonders if his close friends know that he’s gay, if his parents know. He wonders if the boy is a virgin. He sure blushes like one…

“That’s not what I–”

“No, I’m not a professor,” Severus says, putting the poor kid out of his misery. “Former student, actually. But I’m in town to meet a friend who’s a student here.”

The boy’s phone is on the table next to his books. Severus pretends he’s just now noticed it.

“We have the same phone,” he remarks, taking his out of his coat pocket. Then he pauses before asking, trying to look hesitant. “Mine’s on the verge of death. You don’t happen to have your charger, do you?”

“Yeah, I do!” the boy announces, grinning.

He immediately starts fumbling through his bag, obviously delighted to be able to help.

Severus’ relief is not completely exaggerated. “Thank you, you’re a life saver.”

Truth is, he knew very well the boy had his charger with him. He saw him take it out of his bag briefly, hours ago, when he was setting up.

He uses the outlet on the wall right next to the booth and plugs his phone in. Immediately, a terrible weight lifts from his chest.

The idea that Harry could try to call and not be able to get through to him is a sickening one.

“I’m Daniel, by the way,” the boy says suddenly, reaching out to shake Severus’ hand over the table.

“Severus.”

“Wow…” Daniel gapes at him before turning suspicious. “Severus? Really? That’s your name? You’re not taking the piss?”

Severus smiles thinly. He’s not unfamiliar with mockery concerning his name, but the boy isn’t mocking him. He looks amazed, even a little envious.

“My mother wanted something unusual, something that reflected character. And I think one of my great-great-grandfathers was named Severus.”

Daniel grins. “I like it.”

“You’re working on an essay? On _The Iliad_?” Severus asks, looking at the book on top of the pile on the table.

Daniel sighs. “Yeah. It’s due in two days, but I’ve been slacking off more than I should have. I thought I could get it done tonight, but I don’t think it’ll happen.”

“What’s it about?”

“The theme of love. Fifteen pages. It started out easy. I rambled on about the love between Helen and Paris, which is what started the whole mess in the first place. Then I talked about Menelaus’ love for Helen driving him to lay siege to Troy. Though I don’t know if it was really love, or just pride. I even talked about those homoerotic feelings between Achilles and Patroclus,” he says with a grin. “I mean, with Achilles going off on a vengeful rampage after Patroclus got killed and all that. I managed a good bit on that. But now I’ve still got like… seven pages left, and I’ve run dry.” He falls silent, blushing again. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”

Severus realises he’s just stifled quite a large yawn. “No, no. It’s not you. I’m a little bit of an insomniac, that’s all.”

“I figured.”

He’s probably noticed Severus looks utterly worn out, but he’s had the grace not to mention it.

Severus has a feeling Daniel is probably smarter when he’s talking to kids his own age but is now trying so hard to seem nonchalant that he’s fumbling. He’s obviously terribly intimidated by Severus, and it’s almost obvious enough for Severus to take pity on him.

“You know, perhaps you just need to take a little break, get some distance on your essay,” he says as kindly as he can manage. “I often find that taking a step back and returning to my work after some time brings unexpected results. Trying to write when you’re uninspired is like trying to force food down your throat when you’re full.”

“You seem to know what you’re talking about.”

Severus does his best to stay humble, reminding himself that his own step back lasted two fucking years. “I’m a professional writer. Poetry, mostly.”

Once again, Daniel looks admirative. “Poetry. So… you must have a lot to say about love…”

Blushing again. And flirting again.

Severus almost snorts.

Any other time, he would play along. In a world where the last week or so never happened, where he’s never met Harry and has never been with Harry and has never ruined things with Harry…

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replies instead. “To be honest with you, I often feel there’s nothing more to write on the subject of love than what’s already been written. Centuries and centuries talking about love. Everything new is just saying the same thing using different words. Love’s become redundant, glorified. You can say or write what you will about it, and if you’re the least gifted as a writer, people will say that you’ve managed to capture it well, but in truth they don’t get half of it. In the end, only you will truly know what exactly you’re talking about…” He trails off for a bit, aware that he’s rambling. “Love is personal. It’s subjective, is what I mean. All in all, when it comes to the true nature of love, I think the Classics have more to say about it than any modern poet ever could. Love is the pursuit of the whole.”

Daniel is silent for a time, as if thinking it all over. Then he frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“About what?”

“The pursuit of the whole? What’s that?”

Severus shrugs. “I was just paraphrasing Plato’s _Symposium_.”

“Oh.” Daniel blushes, yet again. “I haven’t read that one yet.”

He takes a pen to jot the title down, underlining it a few times, but Severus has a feeling he’s just trying to look away to hide his embarrassment.

“You really should. I find it’s his most entertaining work. A bunch of old men at a dinner party, babbling about life and buggering boys,” he adds with a smirk.

Daniel grins at him, somewhat conspiratorially. “That quote, what does it mean?”

“Well, there’s this dinner party, which some old Greek men attend. Mostly writers, philosophers. They eat, drink, fornicate. The usual. And they talk, about all sorts of things. As the night progresses and the wine flows, the conversation turns to love. Now, way back then, the Greeks tended to view love with suspicion. They though it dangerous because it could cause a man to act on impulse, to go against his reason. But the men are quite drunk, and they start talking about what’s good about love instead. For instance, that finding love equals finding beauty, finding a higher truth, a higher state of being. Also, that love can make lovers brave, soldiers especially, because if they love, then they have something worth fighting for–”

“Like the Sacred Band of Thebes?”

“Yes, which Plato also discusses, if that interests you. Now, there’s this man among the guests, Aristophanes, a playwright, who’s drunk off his arse by then, and he starts this mighty speech. Or, it’s more of a myth, really. He tells of how, in the beginning of the world, human beings had four arms and legs and two faces. They also had three sexes. Some had a male half and a female half, some were male in both halves, and some were female in both halves. They’d been created that way and were more beautiful and much more powerful than humans as we know them today. They were so strong, in fact, that the gods started fearing their power and they met to discuss what was to be done. Zeus decided that humans needed to be punished for their pride, to be reminded that they were lesser beings, and so he severed them in half to diminish their strength. And if they continued to be insolent, he threatened to split them again and again until they learned their place.

“And that’s why humans look as they do today, because they’ve been split in half, because they’re incomplete. And the two halves roam the world, forever searching for their other half, their severed part. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a man looking for another man, or a woman looking for another woman. None of it matters, because you’re only seeking that other half. It has nothing to do with sexuality, it’s about looking for what was lost, what was taken from you, the original part of yourself. It’s about trying to put together the whole that was severed. And according to Aristophanes, that’s what love is.”

Severus falls silent. There’s a tightness in his chest, and suddenly he feels so terribly, terribly tired. He represses the urge to fold his arms on the table, hide his face in them and sleep for a hundred years.

“That’s heartbreaking when you think about it,” Daniel says after a moment.

“It is,” Severus replies weakly.

“And cruel,” the boy adds. “Fuck Zeus, right?”

He’s noticed. He’s seen the change in Severus and is trying to lighten the mood. It’s almost touching.

“Gods are hardly known for being fair,” Severus says. “And it’s only a story. We know now it couldn’t be further from the truth. There was never such a thing as a human with that many limbs – evolution proved that much. I suppose ancient philosophers liked the concept because it had the advantage to excuse homosexuality, and believing it meant they could keep sleeping with barely-pubescent boys without feeling bad about it.”

Daniel snorts a laugh and smiles gratefully. “I’m going to look this up. It might help me finish my essay. When are you meeting your friend?”

He’s asked this last question casually, curiously, but Severus has noticed how Daniel is even more nervous suddenly, how he’s almost wringing his hands with it.

_Well, Severus, what did you expect? All this talk of love and buggering boys. Of course, he might think you’re coming on to him._

All he wanted was to charge his fucking phone, and now he’s going to have to refuse some posh boy’s advances.

“At nine,” he answers.

“That’s still hours away,” Daniel remarks.

“It is.”

“If you want, you could… I mean, you don’t have to, but I wouldn’t mind if… What I mean is, my flat’s not far from here, if you’d want to come over. My bed isn’t big, but I’m sure we’d both fit… Or if you’re staying in a hotel, that’s even better…”

He trails off, blushing furiously.

In another world, a world where Severus doesn’t feel utterly broken and resentful and just plain fucking bitter, in that hypothetical world, he would flirt back, get this boy to take him home, and fuck him on the tiny mattress of his flat until he forgot everything about Homer.

In a world where he’s never touched Harry’s skin and never tasted Harry’s mouth and doesn’t know that such a thing exists, Severus would take this opportunity and drink his fill of this Daniel, give him a proper reason to blush.

But in this world, it’s unthinkable. Completely and utterly.

“Daniel,” he says softly. “I’m flattered, really–”

“But you have someone already,” Daniel finishes, shaking his head.

He doesn’t look upset, more like he’s been expecting this outcome.

“That friend you’re meeting?”

“No, someone else.”

“I figured,” the boy adds with a sigh. “Someone like you, of course you’d be taken already. And… just from the way you were talking earlier…”

He hides his face in his hands for a second, but Severus feels admirative now. It takes courage to invite a stranger home to share one’s bed. He himself would never have the nerve to try such a thing. Not while sober anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he tells the boy.

“It’s okay. I understand. I guess I knew you’d say no. I just thought I’d ask anyway. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t usually do this. It’s just… It’s tough out here,” he confides softly. “None of my friends got in, and honestly, I don’t even know how I managed to get into Oxford. I think my dad pulled some strings, but I’m afraid to ask. How terribly shameful would that be? And I feel… lonely out here. I don’t really know anyone.”

“It’s often like this the first year, I wouldn’t worry about that too much.”

Severus remembers it well, his first year at Oxford.

Classes after classes after classes. The echo of large auditoriums. The sea of faces. Whispers and laughter, but none of it directed at him, none of it shared with him. There were familiar faces, faces he knew from Hoggarts, but he ignored them, and they ignored him. They didn’t care enough about him now to torment him anymore, but they hadn’t grown up enough, hadn’t had enough distance from their teenage years to try and befriend him either.

It suited him.

This new environment, this distance, had been a godsend for Severus. He’d welcomed this solitude with open arms. He’d missed Constance at first – she’d chosen Cambridge instead – but they called as much as they could, often talking late into the night. Eventually, as the weeks passed, and the nights grew colder, Severus found other lonely, bookish young men like himself, and cold nights were no longer a problem after that. He could always find a willing body to warm his bed.

If someone as solitary and brooding and as unconventionally handsome as Severus could find someone here, surely this boy has nothing to worry about.

Severus tells him as much. Not in those words precisely, but he manages to make it sound sufficiently flattering as to soothe Daniel’s worries, and virtuous enough so he doesn’t believe Severus has changed his mind and extend another offer to share his bed.

Afterwards, Severus asks him about his college, his classes, his professors. He’s eager to change the subject, to chit-chat about unimportant things, to stray far away from any more talk of love and severed parts.

By the time Daniel announces his intention to go home and get some sleep, the black sky has paled enough to show the heavy rainclouds hanging overhead. It’s nearing seven and the coffeeshop is getting more and more crowded by the minute. Severus glances in relief at his phone, now fully-charged, before giving the boy his charger back, thanking him again.

They say goodbye. Severus wishes him good luck, and after much pleasantries, Daniel leaves, waving awkwardly at him through the window before dashing across the street and disappearing around the corner.

After that, Severus heads to the loo. There’s only one cabinet, and it’s clean enough, but it’s cold and cramped, and the hot water isn’t working. He washes his face, shivering, then stares at his reflection in the mirror.

He looks awful. That boy must have been incredibly desperate to invite him home looking like this. The last few days have taken their toll. His face is haggard, tired. Sickly, even. He washes it, rubbing hard, trying to get some colour back into his cheeks.

He calls Harry again. Usually it rings and rings and rings and there’s never an answer. But this time, it doesn’t ring at all.

“The customer you have dialled is not taking calls at this time,” a recorded voice announces before the line goes dead.

Severus leans heavily on the sink, legs shaking, hands shaking. Heart shaking.

Either Harry’s phone is dead. Or Harry’s blocked his number.

Which possibility is worse?

He kneels, eyes clenched shut, gripping the toilet with both hands. The ceramic bowl is ice-cold against his skin. He tries to throw up, but nothing comes out. His insides are empty.

Everything about him is empty. Hollow.

He remains there for some time, unmoving, shivering, and he comes to terms with what he’s done.

He understands now. There’s no fooling himself, no denying it.

He never should have told this stupid _Symposium_ story to begin with. Why did he have to go and talk about that?

Because that’s what Harry is, isn’t he? His severed part, his other half. The missing piece that makes Severus whole.

Unknowingly, Severus has been looking for him his entire life.

When he was just a child and he cried in the dark and he prayed for something, he didn’t know what.

When he was a teenager, lonely and afraid and confused by his own body, and he only wanted someone to touch him.

When he walked alone through the halls of Corpus Christi, listening to the echo of his own footsteps, pretending his own solitude suited him but really wishing someone else walked beside him.

When he moved to Paris and peered at every face searchingly, desperately, until someone else looked back. And by then he’d been waiting for someone to look back for so long that he’d thought that was it, had made himself believe it was. And even when he realised that it wasn’t it, he’d forced himself to keep holding on. Because it was easier than to start searching all over again.

How was he to know that he would find everything there was to find, so many years later, on a dreary March evening, sitting in an armchair in Remus Lupin’s living-room?

Yes, how was he to know? Soulmates are just a myth, aren’t they? They’re not real. They’re just a stupid concept to help the loveless hang on to the possibility that maybe they won’t die alone, that there’s someone out there just for them if they’re willing to look hard enough.

How could such a person exist?

More importantly, how could such a person exist for someone like him?

And yet, there’s no better way to explain this. This thing fluttering in his chest, this craving, this feeling of belonging to Harry more than he belongs to the earth, to the human race, to himself.

How was he to know?

And yet he knew. Some small part of him did, at least. He knew something was going to happen that night. He knew he had to go to Lupin’s. Deep down, he knew there was something there, waiting for him.

And that strange feeling of déjà vu the moment he’d held Harry’s hand. That familiarity, that certainty that this moment had occurred before.

And maybe it has, countless times, in other lives.

He thought he’d lost Harry then, too, after that first meeting, when he disappeared on the platform and Severus wasn’t brave enough to hold him back. He thought it was over, but it wasn’t. Fate gave them another chance.

That’s what it was, wasn’t it? It was fate!

And he knew it was, the moment he heard Harry’s laughter at the market and turned to see him there. Right there. Like a gift.

Like fate’s way of saying, _Here. I think you forgot something the other night. I just thought I’d bring it back._

Severus gets to his feet slowly and looks at his reflection again in the mirror.

 _Remember that_ , he tells himself. _You thought you’d lost him before, and you found him again. You’ll get another chance. You just have to fight for it this time. It won’t come easy anymore. This is a test. That’s all it is_.

He buys a warm scone on his way out but ends up just slipping it into his pocket instead of eating it. The thought of putting food in his mouth is like torture. Then he takes the bus to High Street, and he stands nearby, waiting for the bookshop to open. There’s a few others milling about, waiting near the doors.

It’s drizzling slightly. Severus pulls up the collar of his coat and hunches his shoulders into it. He waits.

At nine o’clock sharp, a skinny, slightly bedraggled young man unlocks the front door. His looks, the thick cardigan he wears, along with the warm greetings he gives the regulars waiting on the street, strongly reminds Severus of a younger Lupin.

“Is Hermione here today?” Severus asks him when everyone’s wandered inside and there’s just the two of them standing inside the doors.

“Yes, right this way, sir,” the man – Frank, according to his name-tag – informs him with a polite jerk of his head.

Severus catches sight of Hermione standing at the front desk, setting up something on the register. Her hair is tied back elegantly in a thick bun and she’s wearing a dark, long-sleeved red dress that flatters her figure and complexion.

He makes his way to her, heart hammering in his chest.

“That new leather-bound collection we got on Friday,” she says distractedly as Severus approaches, “did anyone have time to set it up yet, or do I have to do it all myself again?”

Obviously, she’s expecting Frank, or another employee, because when she doesn’t get an answer she raises her head sharply in annoyance. But it all vanishes as soon as she sees Severus standing there.

Her eyes widen, then narrow. She’s speechless for a moment. Severus can see her lips shaking.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asks then, her voice half disbelief, half fury.

 _She’s cussing_ , _not a good sign_ , Harry’s said once.

No doubt she’s heard of what happened and she’s just as furious with him as Ginny is. As Ron and the others probably are, too.

“I need to talk to you, please,” he says in a rush before she can shut him down. “Please.”

This is like with Ginny all over again, except she can’t exactly slam a door in his face. She can, however, make a scene. She can alert her coworkers and get him thrown out.

“Everything okay, Hermione?” a tall, middle-aged man in a security guard uniform asks. He’s been standing nearby, but Severus was so determined to get to Hermione that he didn’t even notice him.

“It’s all good, Elton,” Hermione replies with barely an hesitation, smiling when she turns her gaze back to Severus. “This is an old friend. He took me by surprise, that’s all. Come,” she adds, grabbing Severus’ arm and leading him towards the stairs. “I’ll give you a quick tour of the shop.”

Severus lets himself be guided away and up the stairs, where the bookshop is still quiet. As soon as they’re out of sight, Hermione roughly pushes him against a shelf, making the whole thing rattle dangerously.

She doesn’t seem to care that Severus is taller and bigger than she is, that he’s older than she is and could possibly cause her harm. All she seems is the man who hurt her friend. She’s fuming, her hands fisted by her sides.

“You have one minute to explain yourself, and it better be good,” she hisses.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Severus croaks urgently, throat dry. “It was a misunderstan– no, no it wasn’t. It was my fault. I made a mistake, Hermione. When I found out, I didn’t know how to talk to him. I was just so angry, and I had to go to Paris, and the memories, it was too much. I’ve been trying to fix it but he’s not answering my calls now. I don’t know where he is, and I think he’s blocked my number and I don’t know what to do. Please, you have to talk to him, make him listen. He’ll listen to you, I know it. I can’t… I have to… I just have to…”

Hermione grips his hands tightly. Her dark stare has changed. She looks worried now.

“Severus, calm down,” she says gently. “Come here and sit down. Just breathe.”

She leads him aside to a small area in a corner, where colourful armchairs surround a small table piled with children’s books. She sits next to him, looking quite emotional now.

 _Calm the fuck down, Severus_ , he urges himself. _You’re scaring her. Why do you always have to be so intense?_

He tries to relax, breathing deeply in and out, filling his head with images of Cornwall and the seagulls he liked to watch as a boy as they struggled against the wind. He remembers the sound of the waves, matches his breathing to it. In and out slowly.

“Did Harry tell you I worked here?” Hermione asks after a minute or so, when he’s finally managed to catch his breath.

He shakes his head. “Ginny did. I went to the house yesterday. I just needed to talk to someone.”

Hermione nods. She doesn’t look furious anymore, only confused and shaken.

“Look,” she says after a moment, “I’ll talk to you. I’ll listen to what you have to say, but I can’t now. I have to work.”

Of course. What was he thinking, coming here like this? He was so desperate for anything he didn’t even take the time to think things through properly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want you to get in trouble–”

Hermione smiles weakly. “I didn’t mean that. I just have a lot to do. I’m only here until noon, can I meet you after?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll wait.”

“There’s a nice little café not far from here where you could go, if you want,” Hermione says, looking him over quickly. “You look like you might need coffee.”

Severus shakes his head. “I’ve had coffee. About six of them, I’m not sure.”

“When did you get here?”

“Last night, a little after five.”

“I’ll meet you at your hotel then. Where are you staying?”

Severus pauses. “I didn’t stay in a hotel. I just… waited.”

Hermione is quiet for a time. He can’t help but look away from her dark, searching eyes.

“You haven’t slept at all, have you?” she asks.

“No,” he admits. “Not a lot… lately. These last few days have been… difficult.”

“Oh, Severus…” she says softly.

Her hands are on his again, warm and comforting, but he can’t bring himself to look up at her. He looks at her hands instead, small and soft, with perfectly clipped fingernails.

“Wait right here, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

Her hands slip away and then she’s gone.

Severus waits, sitting awkwardly in an armchair obviously meant for a small child. A mother and her young daughter hover nearby, looking at picture books. The woman keeps a wary eye on Severus and a firm hand on her little girl’s shoulder.

He’s too tired to be offended about it.

Hermione returns shortly after, climbing up the stairs in a hurry. She hands him a small piece of paper.

“This is my address. And these are the keys to my flat,” she adds, holding them up. “This one is the front door, and this is for my door.” She’s plopping them into his palm before he can protest. “You go there, and you wait for me, okay?”

“I can’t possibly–”

“Just wait for me there,” she interrupts. “You can take a nap, I don’t mind. Please take a nap. And eat something. There isn’t much right now, but you can eat it. Whatever you want. Or make tea. The kettle’s already out.”

“Hermione, I can’t–”

She frowns at him, scolding in a way that strongly reminds him of Marine.

“Severus, I can’t just let you wander the streets. Have you seen yourself?”

He nods, throat tight and burning. He can’t stand the look of pity on her face, so he looks away, stares at the keys in his palm instead, at the small charm attached to them, a golden hourglass.

“You can’t be like this, Severus. I know it’s hard, but you need to take care of yourself. Go to my flat and sleep for a little bit. Okay?”

Her voice is soft now, coaxing, like she’s trying to lure a frightened but possibly dangerous animal out of its cage.

“Okay,” Severus says weakly, closing his fingers around the keys tightly, until the sharp edges hurt his skin.

“I’ll see you in a few hours then,” Hermione says, seemingly satisfied. “Oh, don’t mind my cat. He can be a little standoffish at first, but just give him a treat from the cupboard over the sink, and I promise he’ll fall in love with you.”

Hermione’s address is barely a five-minutes walk from the bookshop, on Turl Street, a narrow alley overshadowed by All Saints Church. The building is old stone, like everything else in Oxford, the stairs narrow, and the hallways dark and airy, with a familiar musty smell.

The flat is on the third floor. Severus has to jerk the key around in the lock to get the door open.

He goes to the loo first, at the end of a minuscule hallway on the left. It’s a small, cabinet-like room with merely enough space for an old tub, a toilet, and a gilded mirror over a tiny sink. Severus peers at his reflection again briefly, sighing.

He looks worse. If that’s even possible.

No wonder she took pity on him.

The rest of the flat is just as cramped, as expected for student housing, but clean and quaint. It has an open bedroom, which Hermione has separated with a long curtain attached directly to the ceiling; a small kitchenette with a dining table and two chairs in a corner; a small living-room area occupied by a large sofa and armchair; and a little workspace consisting of a desk and computer set up near the window overlooking the street.

Not much daylight manages to make its way inside, mainly because of the narrowness of the windows and the disposition of the surrounding buildings, but this dimness gives the place a cozy feel.

Severus feels at ease here. He’s always loved small spaces. They make him feel safe, embraced, protected.

Hermione’s cat is a large, fluffy thing with a flat face and suspicious eyes. It hisses at him from its perch on top of the old refrigerator until Severus follows Hermione’s instructions, finds the bag of treats in the cupboard and throws a few on the floor. The feline jumps down, gobbles it all up, and suddenly seems hellbent on covering the entirety of his pant legs with long, ginger fur.

If Severus thought Harry had lots of books, it’s nothing compared to Hermione. They’re spilling from shelves, piled up in corners and on all available surfaces. He even finds some crammed inside the kitchen cupboards when he looks for a cup after setting the kettle to boil.

In a desperate attempt to calm the frantic beating of his heart, Severus makes himself a large mug of chamomile tea. He doesn’t dare touch any of Hermione’s food, even though there isn’t much in the cupboards to begin with. Instead, he warms up the scone he bought earlier and picks at it with a small fork. He can only eat two or three bites before setting it aside.

Then, not wanting to snoop around, Severus sits on the sofa. Immediately, the cat hops onto his knees, purring in bliss. Severus scratches his ears for a little while, then under its chin, where the fur is soft and warm. From a blue leather collar, a golden medallion informs him the creature’s name is Crookshanks.

There’s a picture frame on the end table, of Hermione with her parents. An official family photo, a recent one, quite charming, taken in a lovely sitting room. Tucked into the corner of the frame is an older picture, creased in places. Severus pulls on it carefully to take a closer look.

Ron is in the centre, beaming at the camera. He has his arms wrapped around Harry and Hermione on either side of him. They’re sitting on the front steps of what looks like a country house, with flower pots nearby and an old porch swing in the background. Their three faces are close together, almost cheek to cheek. Someone has written on the back of the picture, in elegant handwriting.

 _The Burrow_  
_July ’07_

Severus looks at Harry’s smiling face. Bright eyes, a carefree grin, windswept hair. He must have been around thirteen in this photo. What was going on in his head? What was hiding behind that smile?

He tucks the picture back into place, heart heavier than ever.

Crookshanks wanders off, disinterested now that Severus has stopped petting him, and he jumps gracefully on top of the desk, where he curls up in a tiny patch of sunlight and stares out lazily at the street down below.

Severus curls up, too, on the sofa, wrapping his arms around his body.

The flat is warm. He can hear the water rushing through the pipes of the radiator and he focuses on that, the sound reminiscent of the tide as it sweeps in and out, caressing the beach in Cornwall. He shuts his eyes.

He’s sitting in the Paris café again. The ocean outside the window is calm and flat, so calm it’s impossible to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins. It shines silver like a mirror, the café suspended in the middle of it, floating in a sea of nothingness, of infinity.

Severus is alone, surrounded by empty tables and chairs. Or he thinks he’s alone, at first, until he notices someone else across the room, sitting alone as well. Severus can only see him from the back, but the breath catches in his throat.

He stands and walks towards the figure. It takes years, it seems, for him to reach the table.

“I almost didn’t recognise you without the beard,” Harry remarks, his green eyes shining with the same silver glow as the sea.

“Can I sit with you?” Severus asks.

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t bring you up here just to show you my books.”

Severus sits, never taking his eyes away from Harry’s face.

None of this makes sense. None of it is real. He’s dreaming, he knows it, but he’ll take this. He’ll take this.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Harry, and he tries to grasp Harry’s hand where it’s resting on the tabletop, but it slips away from him at the last second, when Harry lifts it to run fingers through his hair.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, sighing softly. “I was having a bad dream.”

“I’m scared,” Severus reveals. “I’m scared for you. And I’m scared that I’ll never see you again–”

“You weren’t answering my texts,” Harry says reproachfully.

“I know… I’m sorry… I–”

“You think I let just anyone kiss me?”

Severus frowns, shaking his head. He tries to grab Harry’s hand again, but Harry pulls it away onto his lap, out of reach.

“I’ll fix this. I promise you.”

“I lied, you know,” Harry says.

“I know. I understand why.”

Harry doesn’t reply this time. He turns to look out the window, almost lazily, resting his elbow on the table and then resting his chin on his palm. Severus follows his gaze.

Outside, all the water is going, retreating swiftly out of sight, and the sand underneath is white and gleaming under the bright, sunless sky. Here and there, strewn all over the ocean floor, are dark shapes – whales, sharks, dolphins, all twisting in agony. And away, further away on the horizon, Severus can see the wave. A large, looming wall of water, growing bigger and bigger, with a noise like a wailing horn.

“I love this part,” Harry tells Severus softly as the wave edges closer and closer to them.

Severus’ eyes snap open at the sound of a door opening and closing gently. There’s the muffled sound of someone removing their coat and shoes, and then the soft shuffle of feet.

“I’m awake,” Severus announces when Hermione tiptoes into the living-room. “You don’t have to be quiet.”

It feels like he’s just closed his eyes a minute ago, but it must be past noon already. The patch of sunlight that used to be on the desk has moved to the floor in front of the sofa. Crookshanks has returned to curl up on his chest while he was sleeping. The cat’s weight is warm and comforting, heavy purring reverberating through his ribcage.

“Did you sleep at all?” Hermione asks softly.

“Yes. For a few hours, I think.”

She lifts the plastic bag she’s carrying. “I brought some food. From a little deli I like, just around the corner. There’s sandwiches and some soup. I got some pasta, too. And chips. I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

“You didn’t have to–”

“It’s okay. Come on,” she says over her shoulder as she walks to the small dining area. “Let’s eat. I’m starving. Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Crookshanks stretches, jumps off the sofa and follows Hermione, meowing for attention.

“Hey, Crook, baby,” she squeals at the cat softly, bending down to ruffle its fur. “Did you make a new friend? Yes, yes you did, didn’t you? Everybody loves Crookshanks. He’s such a good boy…”

Severus stands there awkwardly as she sets the table, taking colourful placemats out of drawers and beautiful, mismatched glassware out of cupboards. Then she takes the food out of the bag, opens the containers and lays it all out on the table. There’s enough for at least four people.

“You didn’t have to get all of that,” he says weakly, sitting across from her. “I don’t think I can stomach much right now.”

“It’s okay. I’ll have leftovers for tonight and tomorrow. And Crook can have some. He’s like a bottomless pit. He’ll eat just about anything.”

Severus helps himself to some soup and half a sandwich. Hermione forces him to take some pasta, too. Then she pours them each a large cup of tea, and they eat in silence for a little bit.

Crookshanks stares at them from the floor, his beady little eyes shifting from one to the other, hoping for scraps. Hermione feeds him little pieces of chicken from her sandwich.

“So?” she finally asks.

Severus chews his mouthful of pasta slowly, swallows. “It’s very good,” he comments. “Thank you.”

Hermione snorts softly. “I didn’t mean the food. I meant, what happened between you and Harry?”

He takes another bite, chews, swallows, keeping his eyes on his plate.

“Severus, you said you wanted to talk to me. Talk.”

He sets his fork down and drinks a large sip of burning hot tea. Then he stares at the pattern on the placemat, purple and red flowers interwoven in a pretty, bohemian design.

“I know I said that. I just… don’t know where to begin,” he admits.

“Ron said Harry spent the night at your place and then you told him to leave,” Hermione summarises for him. “And after that you wouldn’t answer his calls and you wouldn’t text him back. What’s up with that?”

Severus lets out a shaky breath. Remorse fills him up so fast he’s almost dizzy with it. Hearing her saying it out loud is even worse.

“I had to go to Paris. To settle things. And I had a hard time of it. I came back yesterday, in the afternoon.”

Hermione looks at him expectantly, waiting to hear the rest.

“Okay,” she says after a while. “And you couldn’t take two minutes to call Harry and explain that to him?”

“I did explain!” he says before he can stop himself. “I told him that I had to go. I told him why. I said I couldn’t talk, that I was busy. I had to fix things with myself… with my life, my past.”

Hermione is frowning at him, and he wants to stop talking, to stop making things worse, to stop lying, but it just pours out of his mouth uncontrollably.

“It had nothing to do what Harry,” he finishes weakly. “I needed time… he shouldn’t have taken it personally…”

 _Fuck you, Severus!_ he rages internally. _Fuck you for saying that!_

Hermione turns away briefly, as if she can’t stand to look at him any longer. Then she puts her fork down and rubs at her face tiredly. When she looks back at him, her bottom lip is shaking.

“Did you know Harry’s parents died when he was little?”

He nods, embarrassed under her sad, disappointed gaze. “Yes. He told me about the fire.”

“He grew up with his aunt and uncle. His uncle would hurt him, I think. He’s never said so, not explicitly, but I’ve always suspected because when I met him, when he was younger… It’s just the way he acted. He would flinch whenever anyone got too close.”

She pauses, offering Crookshanks a piece of chip from the container they haven’t touched yet.

“His relatives, they weren’t nice people. They used to blame him for everything. They treated him like an outsider, like he wasn’t worthy of their love or their attention. They’d call him names, lock him up, starve him. They’d tell him he wasn’t normal… It’s a wonder he turned out so–”

“So good,” Severus finishes.

Hermione nods. “What you have to understand about Harry is that he takes everything personally, Severus. It’s just the way he is. They made him that way. He thinks everything is his fault, all the time, even when it isn’t, even when it has nothing to do with him. If you’re in a foul mood, just because you’re having a bad day, and he sees it, he’ll think he did something wrong. He gets scared and he starts questioning and he overthinks and jumps to conclusions, and when he does, there’s just no reasoning with him. Trust me, we’ve tried.”

“Is that why he had a fight with Ron?” Severus asks carefully. “Ginny told me.”

Hermione shoots him a dark glance. She takes her mug with both hands, leaning back into her chair.

“Ron’s furious with you,” she reveals. “He told me what you said to him, that time you stayed the night. He really thought you cared for Harry. He vouched for you–”

“I do care about him!” Severus interrupts. “More than… more than I thought it was possible for me to care about anyone.”

Hermione’s eyes soften. She takes a long sip of tea before speaking again.

“I believe you. I’m sure you wouldn’t be in such a state if you didn’t. But if you want me to help you, you’ll have to be honest with me about what really happened. I know you’re not telling me the whole of it.”

He only nods. She stays silent, waiting for him to speak.

“Draco came and talked to me, that night at _Morsmordre_ ,” he admits.

“What did he say to you?”

“Terrible things. I don’t understand how someone like Harry could… could want to be with someone like that.”

“Yeah, you’re not the first to wonder,” she says bitterly.

“He said I shouldn’t have any illusions about Harry, that he’s not as perfect as he seems. That he will just… be with anyone. He said I didn’t matter, that with time Harry would go back to him–”

“And you believed him?” Hermione hisses angrily. “Didn’t I tell you he was trouble? Couldn’t you tell he’s a lying prick?”

“That’s not why I–”

“You know Harry,” she insists. “You’ve seen him, you’ve… been with him. You should know better–”

“He told me about Riddle,” Severus reveals before she can go on. “Draco, he told me.”

It’s obvious Hermione wasn’t expecting this. She trails off, sits back in her chair. Severus watches as all anger vanishes from her face and her gaze falls on the steaming tea in her mug.

She’s completely silent for the longest time, breathing heavily. When she speaks again, her voice is soft.

“Everything?” she asks, tentatively.

Severus shakes his head. “No, just… I only know that it happened.”

If Severus still had any doubts about Harry’s involvement with Riddle, Hermione’s reaction is proof enough.

“I know I should have told Harry when I found out,” he continues. “I know that. I should have told him that I knew, instead of trying to trick him into telling me. But I… I was just so angry, Hermione. I couldn’t stop thinking about that man… touching him. He was so young…”

She’s still looking down at the table, avoiding his gaze, fiddling with a corner of her placemat distractedly, pulling at a loose thread.

“What happened?” he asks gently.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she admits in a small voice. “I don’t know what happened. Not in details. And… if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. It wouldn’t be my place to say.”

“I understand.”

“But I don’t know. Harry doesn’t talk about this, ever. His new friends, his housemates, they don’t even know about that. I don’t know if it’s because he’s ashamed or because he’d rather just put it all behind him. Mostly I think it’s because he grew up being taught to keep silent about the things that hurt him.”

She pauses, takes her mug from the table and goes to drink from it before she stops, setting it down again.

“I’ve always made sure he knows he can come to me with anything,” she adds, “but I’ve never asked him outright. I don’t want to force him to talk about it. Pressuring Harry is just about the worse thing you can do… He needs time. He needs to… to do things on his own terms.”

Severus nods, waiting for her to continue. On the floor, Crookshanks is peering up at him, eyes narrowed somewhat reproachfully.

“There’s not much I can tell you. Ron knows more than I do. They’ve always been close, Harry and Ron. They’re like brothers. I know that Harry has nightmares, and Ron lets him sleep in his bed sometimes. It’s been that way since Hoggarts. I don’t know if that’s all the nightmares are about, but… I don’t even know if Ron knows the whole of it. I don’t think Harry’s ever talked about it to anyone except for his therapist. I doubt even Draco knows, or if he does, he probably twists everything up to suit himself. Whatever he’s told you, it’s probably bullshit.”

“He hasn’t told me anything. He just mentioned it.”

Hermione nods, sniffling softly. She rubs at her eyes though she’s not quite crying.

“So, no one knows?”

“Not the whole story, no. With time, I think we’ve just… We all have our own version of what must have happened, I suppose,” she says.

“And what’s your version?” Severus asks softly.

Hermione shrugs, blinking hard, fighting tears. “I think,” she whispers, her voice tight, “that Harry was lonely and vulnerable. And Professor Riddle saw it and thought he could take advantage.”

Severus nods, feeling suddenly nauseous.

“How far did–”

“I told you I don’t know,” Hermione snaps, shaking her head, eyes shut tight, as if to stop the images forming in her head.

“I’m sorry.”

She keeps shaking her head, and then one tear falls down her cheek, followed by another, and then another.

“I should have known,” she whispers then, forcing the sound out in between deep, ragged breaths. “I should have known something was happening. I should have seen that he was in pain. I was right there, I should have noticed.”

“You were just a child,” Severus tells her softly.

He watches, powerless, as a look of pure, raw horror forms on Hermione’s face.

“You want to know the most horrible thing?” she asks shakily, trying to hold back the sobs struggling to escape her throat. “I’ve never told anyone this, but… If I think back on it now, I can tell… I can tell the moment… the day that it happened. The first time.”

Her voice breaks as she says it and she covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wide with shock. She breathes in deeply, fighting to keep calm. Severus waits, speechless, hands shaking on his lap, nails digging into his palms.

“Because one day everything changed,” she gasps out. “Harry was different. He’d always been so quiet, and then suddenly it was like… like there was a storm inside of him. And he was trying to hold it in, but it was slipping out. He was… hostile. He would talk back to teachers and he would be rude and… He would just… lash out constantly… He was in pain and I didn’t see it. He was being hurt, he was being forced and… and I just sat next to him in class and I scolded him for not taking notes… I was a stupid, stupid girl…”

She’s sobbing openly now, quietly into her hands.

“That’s why I never asked,” she moans, her voice muffled. “Because I’m scared and ashamed and… I don’t want to know what he had to endure while I was blinded.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Severus mumbles. “You were just a child. There were adults for that. They should have known. They should have noticed…” He trails off helplessly.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione mumbles after a while, dabbing at her face roughly with one of the napkins that came with the takeaway.

“It’s okay. I…” Severus starts, but he’s not sure what he should say, so he just stops talking. “It’s okay,” he repeats.

“All I know,” Hermione continues, “is that it went on for a few years. And in Year 10, Harry went to Rome for the summer, for an apprenticeship with an orchestra. Apparently, Riddle showed up there, out of the blue. Then something happened, I don’t know what. I suppose someone must have found out. Then the whole thing blew sky-high.”

“There was barely anything about it in the papers.”

“It was all hushed up,” Hermione continues. “I think Hoggarts probably paid the press to keep things quiet. They have a reputation to uphold, you know. But it was all over the school. People loved Professor Riddle. Most of them thought it was all lies. Harry had a hard time back then. He almost quit school.”

Severus frowns. “But they didn’t release the name, did they?”

“No, they didn’t,” Hermione says with a sort of bitter smile, dabbing at her eyes again. “But word got out that it happened in Italy, and everyone knew Harry was in Rome that summer. They figured it out.”

Severus remembers Harry’s mentioned Rome before, just like that, in passing. With no hint whatsoever about the importance of this event in his life, about the terrible things that might have happened there.

“Is that why he stopped playing violin?” he asks after a while.

“I’m not sure exactly. It wasn’t long after that, so it was probably a contributing factor, at least.”

Hermione looks up at him, suddenly smiling through her drying tears. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

Severus nods, his heart heavy with longing.

“What did he play that night?”

“Paganini. One of the Caprices.”

Hermione laughs, sharp and sudden. Then she shakes her head in disbelief. “Almost five years, and he just suddenly decides to play Paganini. Of course!” She laughs again, delightfully. “That prick! And I bet it was flawless, too.”

Severus smiles. “It was exquisite.”

Hermione shakes her head, smiling softly. “Exquisite…” she mumbles. “What you’ve seen, it’s nothing. You can’t imagine what he’s capable of. It’s scary, how good he is. We met in music class, did you know? I played too, when I was younger. But I never really had the heart, and certainly not the hands. I only played because my parents thought it was lovely and I wanted to make them proud and I had this profound need, this desperate ambition to be good at everything I did… God, I hated Harry at first. I worked so hard, but I could never accomplish half of what he can do effortlessly. And he loves it,” she adds, somewhat sadly now. “He truly does. I think it’s the only thing that’s ever really made him happy, the only thing that’s ever been his.”

She stops talking and looks down at Crookshanks for a little while, smiling at him. He lies down on the floor and starts purring, as if relieved to see that she’s okay.

“I don’t know why he stopped exactly. Not for sure,” she says after a while, still looking at the cat in fondness. “Maybe it was because of what happened in Rome, maybe because of the whole thing. Maybe it was after… because of Sirius showing up and then dying before they really had time to become a family. If you ask me, I think it was just a compilation of things. I think he’s punishing himself because he feels responsible and guilty for every bad thing that’s happened. It just breaks my heart to see him throw his talent away.”

She turns to look at Severus again, her eyes sort of hopeful. “When I heard that he played again… for you… I just thought maybe that was it… that things would get better. I don’t know. He smiles so much when he’s with you. He’s never smiled like that before.”

She shakes her head sadly, looks down at Crookshanks again.

 _You should smile more,_ Harry’s once told Severus.

 _I’ve been doing it more lately,_ Severus had replied. _It’s because of you_ , he meant.

How was he to know that it was the same for Harry?

Harry’s smile, that indescribable smile. That thing of beauty. How could someone like Severus be the cause of it?

“I’m sorry,” he tells Hermione quietly. “All this… it’s all my fault. I should have tried harder. I’m a bloody coward.”

She shakes her head, reaches out across the small table to touch his arm softly.

“Don’t say that. I don’t think you’re a coward…”

She trails off, pulls her hand away and sits back in her chair, shoulders hunched.

“I understand,” she continues softly, fiddling with the thread on the placemat again. “Why you acted the way you did. Why you needed some distance. Because I know how scary this is. I could barely look at him after I found out, I was so ashamed. Even now, after so long, I still don’t know what to say or what to do. And I never tried. But what you two have, that’s different. We could all see it that night, you know? How much you care about him. This connection you have, it’s–”

“I love him,” Severus says before he can stop himself. “Already, I love him. From the moment I saw him, I think.”

Hermione nods, as if she suspected already.

“I couldn’t believe it, when Ron told me what happened. I couldn’t believe I’d been so wrong about you. I just couldn’t.”

“I can’t lose him, Hermione. Please help me fix this.”

She wipes at her eyes, swiftly, with the back of her hand, then nods.

“I’ll help you. I’ll talk to him, try to get him to listen. But when he does, you need to talk to him about all of this. If you don’t, you’ll just keep imagining all sorts of things. You’ll probably make it worse in your head.”

“I promise I will.”

“I’m heading back to London tomorrow,” Hermione announces. “And then Ron’s mother invited all of us over for Easter. I’ll talk to Harry, but you’ll have to give it time.”

Severus nods. “I’ll wait however long it takes. He’s worth it.”

“Bloody right, he is,” she says, reaching for her phone, which she’s left on the tiny kitchen counter. “I’ll text Ron, see if he’s got any news.”

“Harry’s lost his job. They sacked him. I stopped by yesterday and spoke to one of his coworkers. And… he’s with Draco. I called Harry’s phone and he picked up one time.”

Hermione sighs heavily, puts her phone down on the table. “Of course,” she says softly.

Severus is suddenly aware of the wave once again, the tides building strength inside his chest, ready to strike.

“Do you know where I can find him? Draco? Do you know where he lives?” he asks.

Hermione looks straight at him and for a fraction of a second, a sort of anger flashes through her gaze, but it vanishes as fast as it appeared. Her gaze softens, and her face looks tired and defeated again. She shakes her head.

“Don’t go there, Severus. Draco’s father is an important man. He’s an MP or something, goes to Downing Street and all. I think he’s been covering for Draco for a while now. You don’t want them as enemies, trust me–”

“I don’t care about that! If Harry’s with him and he’s hurt, I don’t care about who his bloody father is!”

“He’s terrible, I know!” Hermione snaps. “Draco’s terrible and vile and I’ve never hated anyone before I got to know him. You think I don’t want to get back at him, too? For all the times he’s…”

She trails off, breathes in deeply. Then she stands suddenly and starts clearing the table. “Are you finished eating?”

“For all the times he’s what?” Severus demands, ignoring her question. “What has he done?”

Hermione takes their half-full plates and throws the leftovers in the trash. Then she wraps up what’s left in the containers slowly before she talks again.

“They never got along in school, Harry and Draco. They were never close, never even friends. Barely talked. Draco’s always been a bully. He would pick on anyone, but Harry never paid him any mind, and he was too busy with violin anyway. But after the whole thing with Riddle, there Draco was. Suddenly, Harry was interesting to him and he wanted to be friends. He took advantage of the situation, if you ask me. He saw that Harry was vulnerable, that people were turning against him, whispering behind his back. Draco knew Harry’d lost most of his friends. He saw the opportunity and he took it. He slithered his way in through the cracks.”

She shakes her head again, tucking the leftovers away into the refrigerator. Then she pours them both more tea and sits down heavily in her chair, regarding Severus with a serious expression.

“I’m telling you all this because I trust you,” she says, a little coldly perhaps, as a warning. “And I know you won’t use any of this against Harry.”

“I never would.”

She nods sharply before she continues. “I’m not surprised he’s back with Draco. Draco has this way of getting into people’s heads. It’s a bloody gift. And he’s got Harry wrapped around his finger.

“They were together for the last two years of school or so, on and off, in between fights. Then Draco went off to Cambridge. They thought they could make it work long distance, but of course that didn’t happen. Harry knew Draco was sleeping around, and when confronted about it, Draco would act as if it was Harry’s fault. He’d say that if Harry really cared about him, if he really wanted them to stay together, then he should have gone to college, too. It wasn’t long before he broke it off with Harry.”

She pauses, rubbing at her face tiredly.

“After that, there was Jonathan. Mid-twenties, he worked in finance, I think. Harry met him at the Tate. He was a good man, sweet and gentle. He treated Harry like a prince. They argued a lot, though. He had a wife and kid, no one even knew he was gay. He kept promising Harry he’d leave his wife for him and he’d take him to Bali for the holidays. And Harry really believed him. But just like that, Jonathan broke it off. He said he felt terrible, that he couldn’t lie to his wife anymore, that he’d told her the truth and she’d forgiven him, but he wanted to stay with her and have another baby… some rubbish like that.

“It was a rough patch. Harry was devastated. He was working at _Foyles_ back then, but they sacked him because he spent his shifts locked up in the loo, reading Neruda and crying.” She smiles bitterly at the memories. “But then Draco showed up. He’d dropped out of school, said he didn’t like Cambridge after all. But we all suspect he was kicked out because of the drugs and all that. There’s no proof, of course. It’s just reassuring to think that there’s some things maybe his father can’t fix. Anyways, he swept Harry right off his feet, said he’d come back for him, that he never wanted them to be apart again. It was like nothing bad had ever happened in the world.”

“But that didn’t last,” Severus guesses easily.

“No, it didn’t.” Hermione stares off into space for a while, musing. “It’s strange though. For a little while, Draco almost had us all fooled. It was like he’d changed, like he was trying to be good. He’d cleaned up his act, he was being civil with us. I think something bad happened, and his father set him straight, but I don’t know, it’s just a feeling. He went through this whole phase where he wanted to make a difference in the world. He stayed with Harry for a month or so, and then he left on some humanitarian thing in South America. That was supposed to last two weeks, but he ended up staying there for over a month. Then he sent Harry an email saying that he’d met someone and was going away for a while. No news for ages after that. Harry was heartbroken.”

Hermione signs, looking more and more tired with each new revelation about Harry’s past.

“Then there was Christopher,” she adds with slight disgust. “Tall, dark-haired guy who stank of _Drakkar Noir_. He was a Philosophy student. He had an opinion about absolutely everything. God, I’ve never met such an insufferable know-it-all, and trust me, I know what I’m talking about. But Harry found him incredibly charismatic. He was smart and good-looking, but he was just so condescending all the time. Harry was with him for three months or so. He was completely enamoured. They seemed happy, at least. And then Christopher just… vanished. Stopped calling, stopped texting. No news. Just gone.”

Severus shuts his eyes in realisation.

 _Please don’t do this to me_ , Harry’d texted him. Because of course, it had happened before.

“And then I bet Draco came back,” he says softly.

“He did. Funny how he always shows up when Harry finds someone new, when Harry seems happy without him.”

“When he told me about Riddle,” Severus suddenly recalls, “that night, when he talked to me, tried to get me to stop seeing Harry, he said I wasn’t the first man he’d had this sort of talk with.”

Hermione nods. “Ron and I, we’ve discussed this. We think Draco’s been sabotaging Harry for a while now.”

“It seems plausible, yes,” Severus says slowly.

The wave is growing, growing, growing inside his chest.

“So, you see,” Hermione continues, softly, “this is all Draco’s fault. All Harry’s had to endure these past few years, it’s all on Draco. Well, a good amount of it is, anyway. And believe me, if he could just disappear without a trace, no one would be happier about it than I would. But…”

“But what?” Severus says dryly.

“But this has been going on for so long, Severus. This back and forth thing between them, it’s nothing new. If Harry didn’t want to have anything to do with Draco, he wouldn’t. Don’t go thinking that Draco’s forcing himself on Harry, okay? Harry’s more than capable to slam a door in someone’s face. He’s smart enough to know that Draco’s bad for him, that this thing they have is toxic. He knows that. And yet, it keeps going, on and on. And truth is, it kills me to say it, but I don’t think it’ll really be over until Harry puts a real, definite end to it–”

“So, what you mean is there’s nothing we can do? You’d rather wait until something bad happens? Until Harry gets hurt?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Hermione says angrily. “Who do you think you are? You’ve been around for what, two weeks? You think we haven’t tried? It’s all we’ve been doing. For bloody years! I don’t know if you noticed, but Harry’s fucking stubborn! And he’s always so hopeful that things will get better, that Draco will change.”

She stops, takes a deep breath. Her hands are shaking on the table.

“Harry’s his own person, Severus,” she adds, more gently. “We can’t just go meddling in his life like this. You can’t just show up on Draco’s doorstep and threaten him and expect that it’ll be the end of it. Draco will just see it as a challenge, and when Harry finds out, he’ll be furious and then what will you do?”

“You’re right,” he says tightly. “I just feel… I feel so helpless. I didn’t mean to–”

“I know. You’re looking for anything. I understand.”

She sighs deeply, then stands and makes her way to the desk, looks through the drawers.

“Like I said, I’ll talk to Harry,” she says when she returns with a small notepad and a pen. “But it might take a few days. Leave me your number and I’ll get back to you.”

Severus writes down his number hurriedly. “Thank you. I don’t know how I could ever make it up to you.”

“Fixing things will be enough. Making him happy…” Hermione starts before trailing off, suddenly embarrassed. “Although, if you wouldn’t mind… could you sign one of my books?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yes, of course. It’s the least I could do. Let me guess, your favourite is _Silhouettes_?”

Hermione grins, shaking her head and heading towards a pile of books in the corner. “ _Silhouettes_ , is good, but…” she says, rummaging through the books.

Severus watches as she fishes a book out of the pile.

“This one is my favourite,” she announces, handing it out to him.

Severus looks at it for a time. It’s crisp and stiff, like it’s just been printed, although it’s been published over twenty years ago.

“It’s my first one,” he says, though she’s surely aware of that. “Barely anyone even knows about this.”

“I know.”

Severus shakes his head, running a finger over the spine. “Where did you find it? It looks brand new.”

“At the bookshop, in the basement with some unsold material. There’s only like three more copies. I got my boss to put them back on the shelves. I’m hoping others will read it.

Like I said, it’s my favourite.”

The cover is a dark violet colour, with a picture on the front, a detail from a still life painting by de Heem showing some flowers in a vase. The book is thin, almost a leaflet.

 _Flowers for Eileen_ is the title.

“You know, I wrote this not so far from here. When I was a student. When I was your age.”

Hermione nods, sitting back down in front of him.

“Eileen was your mother, wasn’t she?” she asks tentatively.

“Yes. She died when I was a boy.”

She hesitates. “I’ve always wondered… The man you talk about in there… Well, when you talk about the shadows, you mention them over and over, but I’ve always thought they represented someone. It’s your father you’re referring to, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Severus says softly. “Yes, it’s my father.”

Hermione reaches out, takes the book from his hands and opens it to the first page.

“ _You cannot save people_ ,” she reads, her voice barely a whisper. “ _You can only love them_.”

It’s a quote from Anaïs Nin, which Severus placed at the very beginning. It’s been so long since he’s published this, since he’s thought about this. He’d forgotten.

Hermione looks back at him with eyes clear and soft and honest.

He understands the point she’s trying to make. There’s nothing he can do now. All he can do is be patient and be there for Harry when the time comes.

He signs the book, writes a little message, too. Something generic, because he’s too mentally exhausted to come up with something meaningful, but Hermione is completely happy with it. She thanks him again and again.

He refuses another cup of tea and announces he should head back to London, try and get some rest. Hermione hugs him goodbye before he goes, and he lets her. Briefly.

Barely two hours later he’s back in London. The rain, which in Oxford had faded to a light pitter-patter by morning, is torrential here. It beats loudly and furiously against the umbrella Severus buys from the train station.

The flat is silent and empty, as always.

When he walks into the bedroom, Severus finds the bed still unmade and he freezes at the sight. But only briefly, because soon he’s curling up in it and pressing his face in the pillows, searching for Harry’s smell. He brings the sheets to his face, eyes shut tight, hands shaking. And he lets out a moan of distress when all he can find is the foreign scent of the new sheets, of his own soap, of his own shampoo.

All traces of Harry have vanished. Disappeared.

And he’s so tired he can’t help but fear that the rest of his life will be the same, that despite Hermione’s assurances, this is over. Completely and inevitably over.

He feels like crying but there’s only rage now, and the wave building.

_You cannot save people, you can only love them…_

What the fuck does Hermione know about what he can and cannot do?

 _This connection you have_ , she said.

Connection? Is that what she wants to call it?

She really has no idea, does she? No fucking idea.

The word _connection_ is just not strong enough. When it comes to Harry and him, it’s not about connections. It’s about sharing the same soul. He’s convinced of this now.

This, what Draco’s doing, it’s become personal. Severus wouldn’t let Draco get away with hurting him, so why would he just sit back and let him hurt Harry?

 _Don’t go there_ , Hermione said.

 _You don’t want them as enemies_ , she said.

_You cannot save people…_

“Just fucking watch me,” he whispers under his breath.

He falls asleep like this, fully dressed, curled up around an imaginary shape. And he dreams of caressing soft thighs and mouthing along Harry’s neck and feeling a warm body pushing back against his. 

 

* * *

 

He sleeps through the rest of the day, and the whole night, and when he opens his eyes to the morning light, for a few seconds, Severus can’t remember what’s happened. He can’t remember what he’s lost.

And then it all comes rushing back. All of it.

The loss. The emptiness.

And it starts hurting again, the gaping wound where Harry’s soul was once latched onto his own. It’s like an invisible hole in his chest, where cold wind just comes rushing through. A hollow place he wasn’t aware existed until now.

Hermione said to give her a few days, and Severus said he would wait. But he’s never been a patient man. And the fear that grips his heart, the feeling that something is wrong, that something terrible is going to happen – maybe is happening right now – is only getting worse.

The wave is building still, slowly growing to the size of a mountain, threatening, looming over everything, casting shadows.

Severus has always been a firm believer in the benefits of taking matters into his own hands. That’s why he decides to make other arrangements. That’s why he decides to set Plan B in motion. Just in case.

He blames it on his trust issues. Hermione means well, and he’s sure she’ll do her best, keep her word, but in this case, circumstances might not cooperate. And Severus can’t have that.

If Harry’s safety is at stake, he simply can’t risk it.

He calls Oscar as soon as he’s out of bed. As immature and silly as he might appear, the fact remains that his cousin is a powerful man. And whenever Severus needs something important, Oscar is the one he turns to. What he needs now is information, so he calls, and asks for it. Asking doesn’t hurt, and he’s sure Oscar won’t have to dig very deep anyway.

How many boys named Draco, between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one, can there possibly be in London? First, it’s not that common a name. Add to this the fact that this boy has most probably been expelled from Cambridge last year, and the search is considerably narrowed. Add to all this the fact that this boy’s father is a Member of Parliament, and surely there’s only one person fitting these criteria.

He tells Oscar all of this, keeping a casual and even tone. Of course, his cousin is curious and asks what this is all about, but Severus remains calm and friendly, summarising something about a mutual acquaintance and whatnot. And if this is too much to ask, Oscar doesn’t have to get involved. Surely Severus will find another way…

Oscar takes the bait, of course. He’s always taken pride in his connections and his efficiency when it comes to digging up dirt on various individuals. He writes all this down and tells Severus he’ll get his best people on this, that it shouldn’t take very long.

By the time noon comes around, all Severus can do is walk around the flat, desperately waiting for news.

It was clever of Hermione not to give him her phone number, though. If he had any way to reach her, he would have called her ten times by now.

He tries to reason with himself as he paces, to calm his nerves, to be patient.

She said she was coming back to London today, but she didn’t say when. As far as he knows, she might still be in Oxford right now. Plus, even if she’s back, that doesn’t mean she’ll get to see Harry today. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he’s still out there somewhere, with Draco.

Around three o’clock, Severus can’t stand it any longer. He needs to get out of the flat before his pacing starts digging a path in the floor. He grabs his coat and his keys and is out the door.

He walks around aimlessly, grabs a coffee, then sits outside in a small park and sips distractedly. It’s stopped raining and the sun is trying its best to peek out, in vain.

He takes the underground and wanders around the city for a while, getting out of the tube, walking in between a few stations and then getting back on a train. He stares at the people living their lives, going about their everyday things, unsuspecting.

 _It’s all true,_ he wants to tell them. _It’s all true what they say, that there’s someone out there just for you. And if you’re lucky enough to find them, it’s better than coming home. It’s like breathing for the first time. Like hearing music for the first time. It’s like being born._

Somehow, as the afternoon ends, Severus finds himself wandering into St. Paul’s. It’s swarming with people, mainly tourists. He avoids them all, heads deeper, into a quieter area reserved for worshippers, and ends up sitting alone in the shadow of a large column.

From here, the chatter of tourists is almost completely lost. Just a slight rumour, like running water in the distance. There’s a few others like him scattered through this part, all of them sitting quietly – most of them praying, quite probably. That’s what you do in a church, isn’t it?

“I’m not praying for anything,” Severus says under his breath. “I don’t know why I came here. I’m not even sure who I’m talking to…”

A few rows in front of him, there’s a young woman crying softly, her head bent forward. Severus can’t hear her, but he can see her shoulders trembling.

“No, I know why I’m here,” he adds softly. “I’m here because I don’t know what else to do.”

He folds his hands on his knees, fingers knitted tight together, tighter and tighter, until it’s almost painful.

“Things have to be better than this,” he whispers to no one. “They have to be. This can’t be the end of it. I just can’t.”

He raises his head, looks around. There’s an old couple sitting in the front. The woman’s head is resting on her husband’s shoulder as they sit there, looking up at the engravings on the walls.

How long have they been married? he wonders. How long have they been together? How many days and weeks and years of waking up beside each other.

A wave of anger streaks through him suddenly.

“You can’t just give me this and then take it away,” he whispers fiercely, hatred burning his tongue. “You just can’t. It’s not fair.”

The thought occurs to him suddenly, the realisation.

“Are you punishing me?” he asks weakly. “Is that what this is?”

The chime of a phone echoes in the near silence and he almost falls off his chair in his hurry to check his pockets. But of course, when he looks at the screen, there’s nothing. No new messages. He puts it away again, takes his head in his hands, shuts his eyes tightly.

“You are. You are punishing me. I understand why. This is because of Colin, isn’t it? And because I’ve never been able to recognise the good things I’ve had. This is a lesson, because I’ve always taken everything for granted. Because I’ve been terrible to the people who care about me. I’ve let them down, I’ve ignored them. I’ve made them worry. I’ve been ungrateful. You’re punishing me. That’s okay, I deserve it. But please, don’t punish him…”

He takes deep, shaky breaths.

 _Don’t let it happen. Calm down. Just breathe_.

He opens his eyes, just so he doesn’t have to see Harry sprawled on the messy bed in the darkness of his mind’s eye. He looks down at the marble floor instead, at the shining tiles. He studies the pattern in them, breathing in deeply still.

“Please don’t do this to him. He’s suffered enough. Please, let him be okay. Please, God,” he mumbles. “If you exist, if you’re good… Just let me find him. Let me keep him safe.”

He sits there for an hour or so, trying to remember the prayers his grandmother made him recite as a boy, but he can only recall them in bribes of sentences that he confuses and mixes up so much they end up losing all meaning. When his back starts to ache from the uncomfortable, rickety wooden chair, he simply stands and walks away.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he’s heading to Grimmauld Place. He’s on his way to the tube, determined to at least check if Harry’s home, when his phone rings. Finally.

It’s Oscar.

“That kid is Lucius Fucking Malfoy’s son,” his cousin announces as soon as he answers.

Before Severus can ask why the name sounds familiar, Oscar cuts him off, half disbelief, half contempt.

“Remember him? He was in my year at Hoggarts. Slater House. That blond prick with the ponytail?”

“Oh, yes. Him.”

Lucius Malfoy was five years older, Oscar’s age, but Severus remembers him. A very blond, outrageously rich kid with a beautiful face marred by a constant expression of disdain. Severus vaguely recalls he’d gotten in trouble at school over some racist slurs at some point, but he can’t remember the details of that event.

“I knew he was in politics, but I didn’t make the connection when you asked,” Oscar says. He scoffs in outrage. “I can’t believe he named his kid Draco. Seriously, some people.”

“Yes.”

Oscar suddenly turns serious. “You’re not mixed up in anything bad, are you, Sev?”

Severus pauses. He’s standing on a street corner, holding the phone up to his ear. People walk around him, paying him no mind.

“Of course not,” he says casually. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, apparently, Malfoy’s up to his neck in organised crime. There’s no proof, of course, but rumours don’t usually just… pop out of nowhere.”

“It’s nothing bad, don’t worry. What did you find out about the kid?”

“Well, you were right. Cambridge kicked him out in November ’11. As for the reason why, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about that. With some more digging, I’m sure I could find out, but all I know is it must be something bad if even daddy’s name and money couldn’t set things right.”

Oscar pauses for a few seconds. Severus can hear him flipping through papers.

“What I can tell you is that he’s been apprehended three times for possession of drugs in the last few years, and once for distribution.”

“What type of drugs?”

“MDMA, mostly. And cocaine, one time. Jesus. This kid was in Johanna’s year at Hoggarts. Good thing they didn’t hang around the same crowd.”

“So, he’s got a criminal record?”

“Pffft. He was _apprehended_ is the word they use here. Never arrested or charged or held accountable for anything. Wonder why,” Oscar muses dryly.

“Daddy, again,” Severus guesses.

“Most probably. What do you want with him anyway?” he asks again, trying to be casual about it.

“I told you, we have a mutual acquaintance.”

Oscar snorts. “Don’t know what sort of acquaintance you could have that’s mutual, but whatever. Keep your secrets. Just, be careful, will you?” he finishes more softly.

“Always am.”

“Right,” Oscar says skeptically. “What’s up with you lately, anyway? Not calling, not answering your phone, barely giving any news. Constance is beside herself with worry.”

Severus sighs. “Let her know I’m okay. I’ve just been busy. Do you have an address for Malfoy’s kid or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oscar says with a sigh of his own. “Hang on.”

Severus waits as he fumbles through some papers.

The address is in Soho. He memorises it as soon as it’s spoken.

“Thank you, Os.”

“Yeah, whatever. I assume you’re not going to send him flowers,” his cousin says dryly.

“No, not flowers.”

“Look, you know you can talk to me, right? Or, if you don’t want to, you can talk to Constance–”

“Everything’s fine. I’ll try to come to dinner next Sunday. You can let Constance know.”

“Sure,” Oscar says after a pause, uncertainly.

“I have to go now. Thank you again.”

Severus hangs up before his cousin can say any more. Then he turns and walks in the opposite direction.

There’s no need to take the tube. He can walk to Draco’s place from here.

The wave has reached its highest peak. It’s massive and terrifying. It’s taken a while to build up, but it’s ready now.

It’s coming.

Severus’ hands are shaking. He shoves them deep into the pockets of his coat as he walks, fast and determined. Eager, almost.

This is it.

He repeats the address in his head, over and over.

This is where the wave will hit.

 _Be reasonable, Severus_ , the small voice of his conscience intervenes. _Turn around and go home. Don’t do this. If you go there, you’ll do something you’ll regret. Just let it go. Give Hermione a chance. Be patient, like you promised. Don’t do this. Turn back and go home_.

 _No_ , he snarls back internally. _I’ve been patient enough. I’ve waited enough. I’ve turned back enough. I’ve been a coward enough. I’m not letting this go. Not this time_.

His phone starts ringing, vibrating urgently against the palm of his right hand, and when he takes it out of his pocket and sees Lupin’s name on the screen, he represses the urge to just throw the bloody thing down on the sidewalk.

This is all he needs right now. A fucking call from Lupin.

It’s actually a wonder Lupin hasn’t called before now. He must have heard what happened with Harry. He must have heard how Severus selfishly broke Harry’s heart and he wants to yell at him, to threaten him.

Well, fuck him. Severus won’t give him the satisfaction.

He lets the phone ring and ring until it falls silent. Lupin can leave a message if he wants to yell. He can very well leave twenty of those if he wants to. Severus’ voicemail is newly emptied, there’s plenty of space for yelling. It had been full for days on end, but he’s erased everything in case Harry calls and for some reason he can’t answer.

As if that would ever happen.

But Lupin doesn’t leave a message. There’s no familiar chime announcing a new voicemail. Instead, less than a minute later, he calls again.

And again.

And then again.

Through the rage and the fury, Severus distinctly feels it. The tell-tale sign. The tingling. It starts at the nape of his neck and moves up swiftly until it reaches the crown of his head, causing a great shiver all along his spine.

 _Pick up_ , something tells him when the phone starts ringing again. _Pick up. You have to pick up_.

In the end, he answers the call. Not because of that little insistent voice in the back of his head. Not because of the tingling. No, not because of that. Just so the bloody phone will stop ringing. Just so Lupin will stop calling.

“What the fuck do you want?” Severus half yells, attracting the attention of numerous passers-by.

Lupin sounds urgent. “Severus, are you in London?”

“Why do you even–?”

“Can you please shut up and listen to me?” Lupin asks, his voice loud enough to cover Severus’. “Are you in London or not?”

Severus’ heart throbs in his chest, but not in anger anymore.

Something’s wrong. Something’s happened. He knew it! He bloody knew it!

“Yes, I’m in London. What’s this about?”

“Can you check on Harry?” Lupin asks hastily.

Severus feels the chill spread down along his spine.

“Did something happen?” he asks, only now realising he’s frozen mid-step on the sidewalk.

“I don’t know,” Lupin says, voice trembling now. “He just called me a few minutes ago. He was crying, I couldn’t understand. He wanted me to come and get him, but I’m in Bristol, at my in-laws–”

“Where is he? Is he hurt?” Severus interrupts, feeling his whole body flare up with rage. “Is he with Draco? I’m on my way there now–”

“I don’t know! He was crying, I couldn’t understand. I’m trying to call back but now he’s not picking up. I think he’s at home, I think that’s what he said! Please, can you just go check on him? I’m bloody hours away, I can’t do anything!”

“I’ll go. I’m going there now!”

“Call me back!” Lupin barely has the time to yell before Severus hangs up.

He’s already taken off, running towards the nearest tube station, phone clutched in his hand, heart pounding.

He knew it! He fucking knew something bad would happen!

_Calm down, Severus! You don’t know it’s something bad…_

How couldn’t it be? Harry calls, crying, barely able to talk, asking Lupin to come get him. How couldn’t it be something bad?

He could feel it in his guts, in his bones. No, somewhere deeper within. Like a primitive fear, a vestigial instinct from the beginnings of the human race. A sense of impending doom, like a shift in the atmosphere. The same way animals sometimes sense earthquakes hours before they occur.

When he finally, finally reaches Grimmauld Place, he hammers against the door desperately, suddenly full of dread.

What if Harry isn’t home? What if Lupin’s wrong? What if Harry is at Draco’s?

Severus should have checked there first. He was so close by, he should have checked there first.

The door swings open, and the first thing he sees is Kim. She’s holding her phone to her ear, almost yelling into it.

“I don’t know, I just got here!” she says shrilly to whoever’s at the other end.

She stops short when she sees Severus standing there, and he realises she’s crying helplessly.

“What happened? Where’s Harry?” he demands.

“Please just come home!” Kim sobs into the phone before hanging up. She grabs Severus’ arm desperately, practically dragging him inside the house. “I don’t know what the fuck happened!” she cries out. “I can’t get him to calm down!”

She starts crying harder, looking somewhere behind him. Severus turns, his heart skipping a beat.

Harry is sitting on the floor in a corner of the hall, near the staircase, with his back pressed against the wall. He’s sobbing hard, his whole body shaking. On his face is a large bruise, his whole cheekbone swollen, and his nose is bleeding in rivulets down his chin and the front of his t-shirt.

Time suddenly stills. Severus can only stand there, staring.

For a few seconds, he can’t move. It’s like the whole world falls away out of focus, almost like in a dream.

_Wake up. This isn’t really happening, is it? It can’t be._

Harry starts crying even harder at the sight of him, and Severus falls to his knees so fast the shock rushes from his kneecaps up to his skull, igniting his nerve-endings with pain.

“It’s okay,” he says shakily, reaching out, trying to draw Harry into his arms. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

He’s aware that his voice is trembling with fear, but there’s relief now, too. Harry might be bruised and bloodied and terrified and crying, but at least he’s right here, in front of Severus. At last.

But Harry doesn’t seem as happy to see him. He pushes Severus’ arms away, his sobs thick and painful, his eyes wide with panic. He gasps helplessly, trying to breathe, but all he can manage is violent sobs and hiccups.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Severus tells him, cupping Harry’s bleeding face in his hands. “Look at me. It’s okay, love. Just breathe. In and out. You’ll be okay, I promise–”

“There’s so much blood,” Kim moans in distress somewhere behind him. “Why’s there so much blood?”

At her words, Harry gasps in fear, chocking on his sobs.

Severus shots her a warning look. She’s crying still, standing helplessly near the door, keeping her distance. It’s obvious the poor girl is scared out of her wits, but she’s not helping.

“Don’t just stand there,” Severus snaps at her. “Get me a towel, would you?”

She nods jerkily before dashing up the stairs.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Severs whispers, cradling Harry’s head in his hands. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Just breathe, Harry.”

He tries to hold Harry again, with some difficulty at first. Finally, Harry lets himself be embraced, reluctantly at first, but soon he’s clinging to Severus’ coat, sobbing into his chest.

“Just breathe, love. In and out. In deeply. Hold it. And then out. There you go,” Severus mumbles into Harry’s ear softly. “You’ll be okay. Just breathe. Breathe with me.”

He breathes in deeply, then out slowly, so Harry can match his breathing to his own. But it’s hard work, with his heart pounding in his chest and his body flaring up in anger with every ragged, painful breath that struggles through Harry’s lungs.

He holds Harry tight, uncaring of the blood soaking the front of his shirt, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair in long, soothing caresses, from the nape of his neck to the top of his head, softly.

“You’ll be okay,” he mumbles, over and over. “Just breathe. You’ll get through this. You’re doing so well. Just breathe.”

This, right here, with Harry cradled safely in his arms, this is where Severus is meant to be.

He’s not shipwrecked anymore. He can stop swimming. He’s come home.

“I brought a towel,” Kim says quietly.

He hasn’t even noticed her coming back. She’s stopped crying, but her eyes are wide and afraid still.

Severus feels bad for snapping at her earlier. He nods gratefully, trying to soften his gaze, and he takes the towel from her. It’s damp with warm water.

Harry’s calmed down some, too. His breathing is ragged but steadier, and his sobs sparser now. Severus wipes at his face gently with the towel, washing the blood away. He dabs softly at Harry’s swollen cheek and the boy winces, inhaling sharply.

“Did Draco do this?” Severus asks softly.

Harry turns his head away, avoiding his gaze. But Severus knows him enough by now to know the answer without having to hear it.

Before he can ask anything more, however, the front door swings open and Tamlyn barges in, followed by a tall, square-shouldered young man in his mid-twenties. He’s got sharp eyes, short dark hair, and a thick, well-groomed beard. There’s a large tattoo crawling up the side of his neck.

This must be Baz.

The newcomers stand there for a few seconds, taking in the scene. Kim, red-faced and teary-eyed, and Severus kneeling next to a still-bleeding, occasionally hiccupping Harry.

“Who the fuck is this?” Baz asks suddenly, breaking the spell.

“That’s Severus,” Tamlyn answers, her eyes never leaving Harry’s shaking form.

“Did you do this?” Baz asks angrily, directing the question at Severus.

“It was Draco,” Severus announces, holding the towel against Harry’s nose to wipe a new trickle of blood.

“I… fell down… the stairs,” Harry says slowly then, in between deep, painful breaths. He flinches away from the towel when Severus tries to press it against his face.

“Fell down the stairs,” Baz repeats moodily. “Don’t bullshit us.”

Harry looks away, once again pushing the towel from his face, this time moodily, almost slapping Severus’ hand away.

Baz walks over swiftly. “Move over,” he snaps at Severus. “Let me have a look at him.”

Severus doesn’t budge. “Back off,” he warns.

“It’s okay, Severus,” Tamlyn intervenes. “He’s got EMT training. Just let him check on Harry.”

Severus moves away reluctantly, with one last warning glare that Baz completely ignores as he crouches in front of Harry.

_Get your shit together, Severus. This is Harry’s friend, he won’t hurt him. He’s got more right to make sure Harry’s okay than you do. This is your fault, after all…_

“I’m sorry for ruining your date night,” Kim tells Tamlyn shakily. “I just… I came home, and he was on the floor and he was bleeding and I couldn’t get him to calm down. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“The restaurant was shit anyway,” Tamlyn says, trying to make light of the situation. “You probably saved us from food poisoning. What are you doing here?” she asks Severus.

“Lupin asked me to check up on him,” Severus says distractedly, still watching Harry.

“Look at me,” Baz says firmly, trying to grab Harry’s chin to have a proper look at his face.

But Harry keeps batting his hands away. “Leave me alone,” he whines in annoyance.

“Just fucking look at me, would you?” Baz snaps, grabbing his wrist firmly to stop the assault.

“Baz, take it easy,” Tamlyn warns, putting a steady hand on Severus’ arm to stop him rushing over.

“What happened with Draco?” Baz demands, finally looking Harry in the eyes.

“Nothing,” Harry says, his speech coming out slurred. “We just… had a row.”

“And he hit you?”

“Told you I fell down the stairs,” Harry says again, insistent.

“After he hit you, you mean,” Baz repeats coldly. “Did he fucking push you?”

Harry just groans and tries to pull away, but Baz grabs his chin again to peer at him closer.

“Follow my finger,” he demands.

Harry sighs in exasperation but obeys nonetheless.

“Could he be concussed?” Severus asks worriedly. “He sounds confused–”

“He’s not concussed, he’s fucking high,” Baz reveals coldly, letting go of Harry’s face. “What did you take?”

Harry looks away, mumbling something Severus can’t hear from where he’s standing.

“How much?” Baz asks again.

Once more, Harry’s answer remains inaudible. He looks up briefly, and Severus catches his eye for a second before Harry looks away sharply, as if burned.

Baz sighs, looking at Harry in the patronising way of someone about to lose their shit. “You lying to me?”

“No,” Harry grumbles, half offended, half sulky.

“You feel nauseous? You gonna throw up?”

“No,” Harry repeats.

Baz frowns at him. “You sure? You said that last time and you did anyway.”

“I said I won’t!” Harry snaps. “Just leave me alone!”

“I’ll leave you alone when you stop acting like a fucking child–”

“Baz, take it easy!” Tamlyn says again, stepping forward and grabbing her boyfriend’s shoulder.

Baz rubs at his face in exasperation, but when he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“You feel dizzy? Can you stand up?” he asks, reaching out to help Harry to his feet.

“Leave me alone!” Harry whines again, this time flinching away and drawing his knees up to his chest. “Where’s Ron? I want to see Ron!” he cries in distress as a heavy sob escapes his throat.

“Just calm down, will you? I’ll call him,” Baz says gruffly, getting to his feet.

Severus steps forward, crouching close to Harry again. He’s dying to hold him, but Harry turns away, pressing his forehead against the wall, refusing to even look at him.

“Harry?” he says softly, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Harry shrugs his hand off. He only shakes his head, eyes shut tightly. He looks like he might be sick.

“Harry,” Severus whispers, his heart in his throat. “I’m sorry. Please just tell me–”

“It’s no use trying to talk to him when he’s like this,” Baz says him. “He’ll just whine or tell you to fuck off. You better just wait until he comes down.”

Severus stands reluctantly and rejoins the others.

“What did he take?” Tamlyn asks quietly.

Baz shakes his head. He’s taken his phone out of his pocket and is looking through his contacts. “Just E, he says.”

“He’s lied before–”

“What d’you want me to do about it?” Baz asks dryly, but his voice has lost its edge. He just looks tired now.

“Maybe we should take him to A&E, just to be sure,” Kim says, eyeing Harry warily.

Baz shakes his head. “He’ll be fine,” he says, bringing his phone to his ear.

“How much did he take?” Tamlyn asks again.

“He says he doesn’t remember.”

“Maybe we should take him to A&E anyway,” Kim insists.

“I can take him,” Severus says.

Baz snorts. “No hospitals. He’ll have a fit. Where the fuck is Ron? He’s not picking up,” he mumbles, hanging up his phone. “Anyone got Hermione’s number?”

“No, I don’t,” Tamlyn says.

“Me neither,” Kim replies.

Severus just shakes his head.

They stand there for a little while, the four of them, just looking at Harry. He’s calmed down, breathing steadily now, his forehead pressed against the old wallpaper. He’s still shaking a little – light tremors running across his shoulders. Every one of them is like a needle through Severus’ heart.

“We should get him cleaned up at least,” Tamlyn says after a while. “He’s covered in blood.”

Severus steps forward, but as soon as his hand brushes Harry’s shoulder, the boy flinches violently. “Fuck off!” he cries out.

For a few seconds, no one says a word and Harry’s voice echoes through the empty house. The hurt on Severus’ face must be terribly obvious, because when Baz finally breaks the silence, his voice is soft, almost sympathetic.

“Told you,” he says. “He’s not himself right now. Don’t sweat it, mate.”

But he looks away uncomfortably. And out of the corner of his eye, Severus catches Kim and Tamlyn sharing a tensed glance.

They’re all thinking it. They all know this is his fault. They’re all blaming him.

They don’t want him here. Harry doesn’t want him here. He should just go home.

_No, you’re not going home. You’re staying right here. Who said this was going to be simple? Did you think Harry would forgive you so easily?_

_You’re not leaving this house until you’ve had a chance to explain_.

Baz takes off his coat and hangs it on the bannister.

“Come on, Harry,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then to bed. Okay?”

Despite his snappish and gruff manner, he is gentle as he grabs Harry by the shoulders to help him up.

Severus pretends he isn’t hurt by the fact that Harry doesn’t flinch away this time.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asks again, somewhat bewildered.

“He’ll be here soon. Come on, now.”

“You should go home, Severus,” Tamlyn says, taking off her own coat and hanging it on the rack. “He’ll be okay.”

Severus shakes his head, determined. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Get some ice for his face then,” Baz says over his shoulder as he heads up the stairs with Harry leaning heavily against him.

Severus nods and disappears swiftly down the dark hallway leading to the kitchen and away from their knowing looks and judging eyes. The knot in his throat is burning hot.

_Get your shit together, Severus Prince! He’s hurt and tired and high on whatever shit that prick gave him. And you broke his heart! Of course, he doesn’t want to see you right now. Just wait. Just be patient for once in your fucking life._

Once in the kitchen, he throws away the blood-soaked towel he was still holding and gets some ice that he wraps tightly in a plastic bag. Then he climbs back upstairs slowly.

Tamlyn and Kim are on the first floor, sitting on the sofa with their heads close together. Severus ignores their mumbling and the brief looks they shoot his way. He keeps going until he reaches the fourth floor.

Harry’s bedroom is a complete mess. It looks either like someone’s ransacked it in anger, or like a bad fight took place.

The drawers on the dresser are open and there are clothes everywhere. The lamp on the bedside table has been knocked onto the bedroom floor, the lightbulb smashed to pieces.

Books have been thrown about. Severus picks up _Silhouettes_ from the floor, but there’s only the cover left. All the pages have been ripped out and scattered across the room.

Through the half-opened bedroom door, Severus can see Harry sitting on the closed toilet lid, eyes shut, waiting while Baz runs a towel under the tap. He watches quietly from a distance as Baz cleans the leftover blood caked on Harry’s face.

“Is it broken?” Harry slurs, wincing in pain as Baz dabs gently at his swollen cheekbone. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

“It’s not broken, don’t worry,” Baz mumbles in reassurance.

He’s quiet as he works, and still Severus watches from the bedroom, trying hard to convince himself that he’s not jealous. That he’s not physically hurting with the urge to be close to Harry, to hold him again.

“You feeling a bit better now?” Baz asks after a while. “You okay to talk?”

Harry only groans in response, eyes still shut. He looks ready to fall asleep.

“What happened with Draco? Did he hit you?”

Harry opens his eyes to look at him, but he doesn’t answer. He scrunches up his face, then winces, as if testing the pain.

Baz throws the towel into the sink, crouches in front of Harry.

“You can tell me. I promise I won’t get mad.”

Harry prods carefully at his cheek, wincing again. “You won’t yell at me?” he asks quietly.

Baz shakes his head, looking suddenly guilty. “I promise. I’m sorry I yelled before. I was just scared for you.”

“Because of Lucas?”

Baz looks away briefly, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah,” he says with a sigh.

“I was mad at Draco,” Harry starts, blinking away tears. “He took my phone, he went into my contacts and he blocked people, so they couldn’t call me, and he erased all the numbers. And I was… I was just mat at him.”

“You were right to be mad.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Harry mumbles, confused. “I was yelling at him, and then… he just…”

“He hit you?”

“It happened so fast. And then I think I tripped. And then I was on the floor and he was gone, and there was blood everywhere. And I tried to call, but I couldn’t. All the numbers were gone. There was just Remus’ I could remember…” He trails off, sobbing weakly.

Baz rubs his arms soothingly. “Hey, it’s okay now. It’s over. Just calm down.”

“My head hurts,” Harry moans. “I’m so tired.”

“Let’s get you changed, okay? And then you can go to bed.”

Baz steps into the bedroom a second later, and he seems surprised to see Severus standing there.

“He asked me if you were really here,” he tells Severus quietly as he picks up a t-shirt from the mess on the floor. “He was so out of it, I think he thought he was making you up. Could you… make his bed or something? God, look at this mess…”

Severus obeys, tucking the sheets back neatly around the mattress, then carefully arranging the blankets and the pillows. He picks up the lamp from the floor, gathers the pieces of broken lightbulb so Harry doesn’t accidentally step on them, and throws it all in the rubbish bin in the corner.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Baz help Harry out of his bloodied t-shirt and into another one, clean albeit slightly wrinkled.

“Come on, now. Let’s get you to bed.”

It’s only when Baz leads Harry back into the bedroom that Severus notices that the t-shirt, the one just fished out of the pile on the floor, is the very one he lent Harry a few days ago.

He swallows around the knot in his throat and heads into the bathroom to fetch a clean towel to wrap around the bag of ice. He’s grateful for the task, which allows him a moment alone to get his shit together. He also takes the opportunity to wash his hands, which he’s just noticed are stained with Harry’s blood. His shirt is a total mess, too, but there’s no use trying to clean that.

He comes out of the bathroom to Baz sitting on the edge of the bed, tucking the blankets around Harry’s body.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry asks softly.

“He’ll be here when you wake up. Just get some sleep, okay?”

“My face hurts.”

“Severus brought you some ice.”

Harry peers at him briefly, then he looks away, turning his head towards the window.

“Okay,” he says after a while.

“Do you want him to stay with you for a while?” Baz asks, hesitant.

Harry only shrugs.

“Try to sleep. We’re all downstairs if you need us.”

Baz turns off the lights before he leaves the room, with one last look towards Severus.

The lights are still on in the bathroom, and the open door spreads a ray of light on Harry’s bed. Severus moves to the window to crack it open, then sits on the edge of the bed.

“My face hurts,” Harry complains softly.

Severus gently places the bag of ice against Harry’s cheek.

“Better?” he asks, mouth dry, fighting the urge to caress Harry’s face, to kiss his lips.

Harry moans faintly. “Mmmm.”

Severus reaches out, pushing the hair away from his forehead, hands shaking with longing.

“I’m sorry. About everything–”

“What are you doing here?” Harry mumbles.

“Lupin’s out of town. He called me, asked me to check up on you. He was worried about–”

“Well, I’m fine,” Harry interrupts dryly. “You can go home now.”

Severus shakes his head, but Harry’s eyes are shut, refusing to look at him.

“I didn’t come here just because he asked me to,” he begins, but Harry cuts him off.

“Just go away,” he says, pushing Severus’ hand away and holding the bag of ice against his face by himself.

“If that’s what you want. We’ll talk later, when you’re–”

“I don’t want to talk later,” Harry snaps. “Go away.”

Severus stands reluctantly. Harry’s face is turned away still, his eyes shut tight.

It’s dark in the bedroom, but the thin ray of light from the bathroom allows him to see a tear fall from Harry’s eye and disappear in the shadows.

Baz is waiting in the hallway, leaning on the wall near the door.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says unapologetically when Severus comes out.

“You had every reason to,” Severus says with a tired shrug. “I’ve been a prick.”

“Well, at least you’re trying to make up for it. There’s that.”

Severus scoffs. He’s quite surprised when Baz suddenly puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Like I said, he’s not himself right now. Just let him come down and… Well, maybe he’ll be more… receptive then.”

“Maybe,” Severus only says.

“Look, about earlier,” Baz adds, taking a brief peek inside Harry’s bedroom and softly pulling the door almost shut. “I know I probably came off as insensitive, but I care about him. I really do. It’s just… He’s such a smart kid, it’s killing me to see him like this.”

“It’s killing me, too,” Severus whispers.

“My little brother was a junkie,” Baz confesses. “He died when he was around Harry’s age. So… when he pulls that kind of shit, it hits a little too close to home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He isn’t always like this, you know,” Baz says suddenly, as if afraid Severus might get the wrong idea. “The drugs and all that, that’s not Harry. Don’t go thinking that. It’s just–”

“It’s Draco,” Severus interrupts. “I figured.”

Baz sighs heavily, patting his shoulder again.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” he announces. “Fucking need one right now.”

Severus stands alone in the hallway for a while after he leaves, watching Harry through the crack in the door. He hurries away when his phone starts ringing in his pocket, turning the volume down before picking up the call.

“Yes, Lupin. He’s okay.”

Lupin sighs in relief at the other end. “What happened?”

“He had a fight with Draco. From what I understand, Draco hit him, and he fell down the stairs. He’s okay though, just a nasty bruise and a nosebleed. He was having a panic attack when he called you.”

He falls silent. Should he tell Lupin about the drugs? No, bad idea. Harry doesn’t tell Lupin everything, and he doesn’t really want to be the one to break it to him if the man doesn’t already know Harry occasionally goes down that path. Better keep his mouth shut.

“That… that fucking kid,” Lupin hisses furiously. “I swear I’ll… I’ll bloody…”

“I know,” Severus says dryly. “I’ve met him.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he made a run for it before I arrived.”

Lupin sighs shakily. He’s silent for a time, as if searching for words. There’s something awkward about this conversation now.

“Severus… Thank you,” he says finally. “I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t have any of his friends’ numbers, and Constance was working late, and well… she doesn’t know Harry anyway–”

“His friends are here now. He’s okay,” Severus tries to reassure him.

It’s almost funny. Who would have thought he’d one day want to reassure Remus Lupin?

“Good. Very good, then. They’re great kids.”

“He’s told you what happened between us, didn’t he?” Severus ventures.

Lupin clears his throat deeply. “He told me he saw you on the tube and invited you to dinner. I figured that wasn’t all there was to it.”

“Not exactly, no.”

Lupin sighs, sounding resigned. “We haven’t talked in a few days,” he admits. “I know he avoids my calls a lot. But I didn’t know Draco was back in the picture.”

“It’s complicated.”

 _And partly my fault,_ Severus almost adds.

“It always is, with Harry. Is he around? Can I talk to him?”

“He’s sleeping now. I’ll tell him to call you when he wakes up.”

“Thank you, Severus. Again.”

“It’s no problem.”

When they hang up, it almost feels like they’ve achieved some sort of truce.

Again, who would have thought?

Severus heads downstairs, unsure what else to do at this point. The girls are still in the den. The telly’s been turned on, but neither of them is watching. They both turn to look at him when he comes down the stairs.

Tamlyn points to a large armchair. “You should sit. You look knackered.”

Severus nods, taking the offered seat. “Listen,” he starts, “about what happened between Harry and I–”

“Yeah, Hermione told me,” Tamlyn says before he can continue. “Well, some of it anyway. She said you came to see her and that you want to fix things with Harry. That you guys had some sort of misunderstanding. Was it because of Draco?”

“Partly, I suppose. It’s complicated.”

“Ginny told me you came by the other day,” Kim adds, suddenly blushing.

Tamlyn laughs. “Kim fancies Ron’s sister,” she tells Severus.

“Shut up!” Kim exclaims, hiding her face in her hands but breaking into a fit of giggles.

Tamlyn smiles fondly at her friend before turning back to him. “I’m glad you came back, that you’re giving this another shot. Harry really likes you, you know? And he’s such a great kid, but… He can be… a bit of a mess sometimes, and he doesn’t always–”

“It was my fault entirely,” Severus admits. “I’m the one who fucked up, not him. I suppose, in a way… I thought I knew what I was getting into, but I really didn’t. And I hesitated, just for a moment. But at the wrong moment, in the wrong way. I handled it poorly. He didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all on me. I’ve made such a mess of it. And now he’s lost his job on top of it all…”

Tamlyn scoffs softly. “Oh, don’t worry about that. His boss was a cunt anyway. Good riddance. Harry can come work with me at the coffeeshop. He’s helped me out before, when I was short-staffed. Everyone loves him, they’ll be delighted.”

Kim sniffs, her eyes filled with tears suddenly. “He’s just so great, isn’t he? He’s… God, if something had happened to him…”

“Hey, don’t start that again,” Tamlyn says softly, patting her friend’s cheek. “He’s okay, now. Everything’s fine.”

Kim nods, breathing in deeply. “Did Harry tell you how we met?” she asks Severus.

“No, it didn’t come up.”

“It was last year,” she begins softly. “It was late at night. I was on the tube, coming home from catching a late movie with some friends. I was alone. There were maybe… six people in the carriage. And there was this man, staring at me.”

Tamlyn puts an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder. Obviously, she’s heard the story before.

“This stare,” Kim continues. “Every girl, every woman knows this stare. Like you’re just skin with nothing inside. Like an envelope with no feeling. Just a piece of meat. I wasn’t even looking at him, but I could feel his stare. I ignored him, thinking he would eventually just find something else to look at. But he didn’t.

“He came up and sat down right next to me,” she continues slowly, staring into space as she recalls the events. “Still, I ignored him. But he didn’t give up. He put his hand on my thigh and squeezed it. And he whispered in my ear.” Her voice breaks and she breathes in deeply before saying it, softly. “He said, _You’re gonna come home with me, you slut, and I’m gonna fuck you bloody_.”

Severus’ breath catches in his throat, and he stares the two girls, horrified.

“I was so scared,” Kim continues. “I was so scared I couldn’t even speak. I looked around, thinking someone was going to help, but everyone just completely ignored me. And that man was sliding his hand up my thigh, into my skirt. I was so scared.

“Harry was standing near the doors, at the very end of the carriage. But he’d seen me. He’d noticed. Others had noticed, too, I’m sure of it. But they didn’t do anything. Harry just walked right up to me, and he looked at me straight in the eyes and he said, _Oh my God! I haven’t seen you in ages! How have you been?_ And he took my hand and he pulled me to my feet and he kissed me on the cheek like we were old friends,” she tells Severus, looking at him with teary eyes. “Then he led me away, he asked what station I was getting off at. I could barely speak, I was so scared. But he got off with me, and he held my hand and walked me all the way home, chatting, telling me jokes, making me laugh.”

Tamlyn turns to Severus, smiling softly when she sees the expression on his face.

“I don’t know what would have happened to me if Harry hadn’t been there that night,” Kim continues. “But that’s just the kind of person he is. Everyone saw what was happening, I know they did. But no one did anything, no one except–”

Suddenly, there’s some sort of commotion downstairs in the hall.

First, indistinct voices, like an argument growing in volume and intensity. Then the front door swings open, and all hell breaks loose.

“I said no! Get the fuck out!” comes Baz’s roaring voice, followed by the sounds of scuffle.

There’s a loud thud of metal, and its echo rings through the house like a bell.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” someone cries out indignantly. “I just want to see if he’s okay–”

“Get the fuck out!”

Before Severus knows it, he’s on his feet and running for the stairs, the girls dashing after him.

The coat rack is on the floor. That’s what’s made such a terrible racket.

And Baz has Draco in a headlock, trying to pull him towards the open front door. But Draco’s already made it halfway up the first flight of stairs and is hanging onto the railing for dear life.

“Get away from me!” he shrieks as Baz tightens his hold. “It was an acci–”

“Severus! What the f–”

Severus doesn’t know exactly what happens then.

From the moment he stepped into Grimmauld Place tonight and saw Harry sobbing and bleeding on the floor, he forgot everything else. He forgot about the wave. It’s like it just stopped, suspended in time.

But then, suddenly, time starts again. The wave unfreezes, resuming its course. Not only does it resume, but it rushes to catch up for lost time.

The wave hits full blast.

He’s not sure exactly how it happens, but somehow, he manages to hoist Baz out of the way and grab a hold of Draco. Before he knows it, he’s got the kid pressed against the wall, hands wrapped around his neck.

“You,” he manages through gritted teeth. “I told you… I told you what would happen if I saw you again.”

“Severus!” someone shouts, but the sound is so distant he can barely hear it through the blood pounding in his ears.

His whole world is reduced to the boy before him, to the smirk on his face.

“The fuck you think you’re gonna–” Draco snarls, but the words fade as Severus tightens his hold.

“Severus, let him go!”

“I just want to… see if he’s okay…” Draco gasps, a sudden hint of fear in his silver-grey eyes. “I didn’t… mean to… It was an accident… It won’t happen again…”

“It won’t happen again,” Severus repeats, “because you won’t see him again. Ever. You hear me?”

“My father…” Draco chokes out, his hands coming to claw helplessly at Severus’.

“I don’t give a shit who your father is. You think he can help you now? Right this moment, you think he can help you?”

“Severus, take it easy,” comes a voice to his right, and he’s aware of strong hands trying to pull him away from the boy. “Severus, let him go.”

“You’re never coming back here,” Severus tells Draco, ignoring the voice and the hands and the shouts, all so distant. “You’re not calling Harry again. You’re not texting him again. No contact, you hear me? You see him on the street, you turn around. You hear me?”

There’s no sound coming from Draco’s lips, but a twitch under his hands. A nod.

“Severus! Let him go!”

“Oh my god, Baz! Do something!”

“You hear me?” Severus rasps.

“Y… yes…”

“What the fuck is happening here?”

“Swear it.”

“Oh, my god… What’s going on?”

“Severus, let him go!”

“Swear it!”

“Ron! Ron, help me! Grab him!”

Severus loosens his hold slightly. The boy can’t very well swear it if he can’t speak.

“I swear,” Draco gasps, eyes tearing up in horror. “I’ll leave him alone… I will… Please don’t hurt me…”

It’s the smell that snaps Severus out of it. The smell of the warm piss running down the boy’s leg.

He loosens his hold, pulling away slowly.

What’s just happened? Was this real?

“That’s it, Severus, just let him go,” a voice says, slow and distant, but getting closer now.

There’s hands pulling his own away from Draco’s neck, and another pair on his shoulders, easing him back.

“Let him go. He’s leaving. Aren’t you, Draco? You’re leaving, aren’t you?” the voice urges.

“I’m leaving,” Draco repeats, sobbing heavily. “I’m leaving. I’m not coming back. I swear. I’m not coming back.”

“Just go. Go, now!” someone snaps.

There’s the sound of sobbing and choking fading away, and then silence.

Severus feels sick. He leans against the wall heavily, breathing in and out, trying to soothe the sudden nausea. He feels like he’s just run a mile.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” someone mumbles.

He raises his head to look around at Harry’s friends.

Baz is closest to him, staring at him in disbelief. Kim is frozen on the stairs, both hands covering her mouth. Tamlyn’s eyes are fixed on the floor and Severus follows her gaze to a puddle of liquid slowly spreading on the tiles.

Hermione is standing in the doorway, agape. And Ron is slowly retreating away from Severus, looking thoroughly confused.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he demands.

Severus shakes his head, swallowing around another wave of nausea.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he mutters.

There’s silence for a long time. Harry’s friends look at each other, and then back at him, shaken. Tamlyn is still staring in shock at the puddle of urine on the floor.

“Anyone want some tea?” Hermione asks shakily. “I think we could all use some.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The quote from Sartre is from _Nausea_ and goes as follows: “You know, it’s quite a job starting to love somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a moment, in the very beginning, when you have to jump across a precipice: if you think about it you don’t do it. I know I’ll never jump again.”
> 
> \- The picture on the cover of _Flowers for Eileen_ is a detail from _Still Life with Flowers in a Glass Vase_ by Dutch painter Jan Davidsz de Heem.
> 
> \- “You cannot save people, you can only love them,” is a quote by Anaïs Nin from _The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume 2 (1934-1939)_


	7. body of loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As he stares piercingly at the small hole in the wall, Severus can’t help but wonder, will he be able to go on? Will he be able to live his life, to keep writing, keep eating, keep going to the shops, keep seeing his friends and family, all the while knowing that the giant sinkhole in the centre of his life is of his own doing? Will he be able to meet someone else, to start a relationship with another man, all the while knowing they’ll never be anything else than second best? A spare. A replacement._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: I don’t know if I really need to write this, but I thought I would anyway. You probably understand by now that this story deals with touchy subject matter such as child abuse and sexual coercion and pedophilia. I figure if you’ve stuck around, if you’ve gotten this far in the story, it means that this doesn’t scare you. I just wanted to make it clear this time because this chapter contains more details about what happened with Tom Riddle. There is no flashback, so it shouldn’t be a trigger. Hopefully. But we do get some detailed retelling of some of those events here, so be warned. 
> 
> On another note, this is it. It’s such a relief for this to be over. I wasn’t expecting this chapter to be so long, but hey, it’s a good thing, isn’t it? 
> 
> There will be a part two, but I don’t think it’ll be up for a few months at least. I want to get most of it done before I publish so you won’t have to wait so long in between chapters. Most of it is planned, and some of it written. All I can say now is that there will be a time-skip of a few months.
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and being patient, and commenting. I love you all so much. I hope you’ll enjoy this chapter.
> 
> I’m liladiurne on Tumblr. Drop by if you’d like to chat.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS REVISED AND EDITED ON 26-10-18.

 

* * *

 

 

-7-  
**body of loneliness**

 

 _I love you in a language_  
_that I don’t fully understand._  
_In words that I haven’t found_  
_the courage to forklift out of my chest._

RUDY FRANCISCO

 

* * *

 

 

The thin ray of light from the bathroom casts a luminous stripe that spreads from floor to wall, almost as if a giant hand was cutting through the bedroom with a red-hot knife. Severus stares in silence at the two figures, their forms clearly defined in the half-light. Harry is sitting up, and Ron is perched next to him on the edge of the bed. They’re embracing.

From where he’s standing in the hallway, Severus can see Harry’s shoulders shaking, fingers gripping the back of his friend’s t-shirt tightly. He’s aware also of Ron’s soft mumbling, but he can’t hear the words. Even Harry’s sobs are quiet – barely perceptible gasps muffled into a steady shoulder. Nothing like the heavy, painful, panicked ones from earlier. These are of a different sort. These are the weary, irrepressible sobs of someone who’s been hurt too much and just can’t take it anymore.

Severus should leave. He should go back downstairs, give them privacy in this moment. But he just can’t look away.

 _Look at them_.  _Look at this. Look at what you’ve done_.

He moves closer to the door instead, and he holds his breath, straining to hear.

“– mean what I said,” Ron is whispering, his cheek pressed against Harry’s temple. “I was just angry. You know that, don’t you?”

His voice has a softness to it that Severus has never heard from him before, and it makes his heart tighten. But whatever Harry replies, it remains too low to make out – quiet whispers not meant for Severus’ ears.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I know,” Ron says, rubbing Harry’s back soothingly. “Don’t worry about that. That’s forgotten already.”

A shift in the darkness, just out of the corner of his eye, makes Severus startle. He turns to see Hermione approaching.

“Is he okay?” she whispers.

Quietly, she pushes the door open wider, just an inch or two, and peeks inside the bedroom.

Neither Ron nor Harry notices.

“I don’t know,” Severus mumbles.

Without saying anything, Hermione steps away from the door and leans against the opposite wall, disappearing almost completely from view.

“– you know that. It can’t go on like this,” Ron’s voice says tenderly from the bedroom.

Hermione sniffs, and Severus catches a glance of her rubbing at her eyes.

“I know…” they hear Harry rasp in between sobs. “I’ll… I’ll stop… I promise…”

Ron’s voice softens even more. He speaks carefully, as if threading on thin ice.

“You say that. Every time. But this time… This is different, Harry. It can’t go on like this. I’m sorry, but I won’t let it–”

“And you?” Hermione asks quietly. “Are you okay?”

Severus can’t quite see her face, but he can feel her gaze – worried and cautious and a little bit scared, probably.

“I don’t know,” he says again.

There’s a pounding, numbing headache behind his eye sockets, and his whole body feels like he’s just run a marathon. His forearms are stiff with pain, and he keeps looking down at his hands, flexing his fingers, and seeing them again, in flashes, wrapped around Draco’s pale throat.

The memory feels foggy now, dreamlike, and every once in a while, he starts thinking that maybe none of it happened at all, that maybe he’s just imagined it. But then he looks up and catches someone glancing at him, and the fleeting look of astonishment or fear or concern in their eyes convinces him that yes, it really happened.

Yes, he almost killed a boy tonight.

That’s why he’s followed Ron up the stairs and away from the kitchen, where the others have gathered. To get away from the looks, to better pretend that it was all a bad dream.

“What happened…” he starts slowly. “I can’t explain it. I’m sorry you had to see that. I don’t know what came over me.”

Hermione shakes her head – he perceives the motion.

“Severus, it’s not–” she begins softly.

“No,” he says, resolute. “I lied. I knew it was coming. I could feel it. I just didn’t think it would… I didn’t think it would be like that. I thought I would control it better… My God… I could have killed him. I _wanted_ to,” he reveals, horrified.

Hermione remains silent. So silent that he starts thinking maybe she’s left without him noticing. All he can hear are the whispers and sobs coming from the bedroom – indistinct sounds, like the wind or the tide in the distance.

“Harry overdosed last year,” she says finally. “It was after Christopher vanished, and Draco came back. He said he was going to a party, but he was gone for three days. We were worried sick. And then Ron got a call saying he was in the hospital… I didn’t mention it before because I didn’t want you to worry… I didn’t want me to worry… I didn’t want to think about it because I was afraid it would happen again. And… I didn’t want you to go after Draco.”

“I was going to,” Severus tells her. “I have his address. I know I told you I would wait, but I couldn’t.”

“I figured,” she says quietly.

“I was heading there when Lupin called me,” he adds.

It takes a few seconds for her to reply, her words full of caution. “And… what were you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m not sure what I had in mind exactly… But earlier, if you hadn’t been there, all of you… I don’t know what would have happened. I can’t explain it. It’s never happened to me before…”

There’s a shift in the darkness, and then her hand is on his arm, small and warm and comforting.

“I’m scared,” Severus whispers, well aware that if it weren’t for the obscurity of the hallway, and the privacy and comfort it offers, he would never dare utter these words to anyone.

“Of what?” Hermione asks softly, her hand squeezing his arm gently now.

“Of what I felt earlier. Of what I’ve been feeling these last few days. Of what I did. I’m… I’m not like that. At least I don’t think I am… I don’t know where it came from…”

 _I’m scared of what I feel for Harry_ , he wants to say. _Of how strong it is. And I’m terrified that I’ll never be able to fix what I broke_.

“It’ll be okay,” Hermione says softly, squeezing his arm again. And then she adds, as if she’s heard his thoughts, “Harry will be okay, and so will you. Everything will work out in the end, you’ll see.”

Severus shakes his head. “He said he didn’t want to talk to me,” he mumbles dryly. “Earlier, he told me to leave.”

“Just wait it out. I’m sure he’ll come around…”

She falls silent. Severus sees her face outlined by the dim light from the room as she turns to look through the door, to check on the figures on the bed again.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” Severus hears Ron mutter.

He turns to look inside, over Hermione’s shoulder. Ron has pulled back now, and he’s staring into Harry’s face intently.

“I know…” Harry mumbles. He tries to look away, but his friend catches his face in his hands, carefully avoiding the bruised cheek.

“Don’t you ever doubt it, okay?” Ron says firmly. “I mean it. No matter what happens, no matter what I do or what I say when I’m mad. No matter what you say or do. I love you.”

Harry nods, shoulders shaking still as Ron wraps him in his arms once again.

“Okay,” Severus hears faintly. “I love you, too.”

The two boys stay silent for some time, hugging tightly. Next to Severus, Hermione wipes at her eyes again with the back of her hand.

Ron pulls away after a minute or so. “You see if you can talk to her tomorrow, alright?” he tells Harry.

But Harry doesn’t reply. He only nods, avoiding his friend’s eyes.

“Promise me,” Ron insists. “Come on, mate. You always feel better after you talk to her. Just give her a call. I’m sure she’ll squeeze you in.”

“Fine,” Harry says softly after a pause. “I’ll call. I promise.”

Ron nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. You want to get some more sleep now?” he asks gently.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry mumbles, already snuggling back under the blankets.

Severus watches as Ron adjusts the pillow under Harry’s head and pushes hair away from his face. He watches all this in silence, heart heavy with longing. He wants so badly to be by Harry’s side, so badly it physically huts. But it’s not him Harry needs right now. It’s his best friend he needs, the one who’s been there for him all these years, the one who comforts him and takes care of him. Not the arsehole who broke his heart.

Severus wants to be jealous of Ron and how close he is with Harry, but he can’t bring himself to. What they have is beautiful. He could never be angry about it.

“You want me to stay?” the redhead asks.

“I think I want to be alone right now,” Harry replies, voice heavy, like he’s already on the threshold of sleep.

“Alright. I’ll be right next door if you need me.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles, turning away on his side.

But Ron stands there for a little bit, watching over him.

How many times has he done this? How many times has he held Harry while he cried? How many times has Ron had to mend his friend’s heart, to soothe the pain, to fix what selfish, cowardly men like Severus have done?

Severus and Hermione move away from the door, retreating further into the darkness when Ron comes out, pushing Harry’s bedroom door almost completely shut behind him, but not quite. He hardly looks surprised to find them there, and when Hermione steps forward, he opens his arms at once, hugging her tightly.

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s my fault,” Hermione says heavily. She’s not crying, but it’s a close thing.

Ron pulls back, frowning. “Why would you say that?”

“We should have stayed in,” she whispers fiercely, on the verge of tears. “None of this would have happened if we’d been here. I thought we’d go out, just to clear our heads,” she adds, turning to Severus, voice shaking with guilt. “We had dinner and went to a movie… If we’d been here–”

“Shut it,” Ron cuts her off gently. “It’s not your fault, ‘Mione. You didn’t do this to him.”

Severus watches as they hug each other, and he can’t help feeling sorry for himself.

Is this how things will go from now on? Will he have to spend the rest of his life standing on the sidelines, watching people embrace, love each other, while he remains alone?

_Get it together, Severus! For fuck’s sake!_

“Listen, Ron…” he starts cautiously.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Ron says with a heavy sigh, tightening his hold around Hermione’s body. “She told me what happened. I’m still mad at you, but… I can understand, I guess. In a way.”

But then, surprisingly, he’s grinning up at Severus in the darkness.

“Although, just getting to see you deal with Draco tonight made it all worth it–”

Hermione pulls away swiftly. “Ron!” she snaps. “Don’t you realise Severus could get in serious trouble? When Draco’s father finds out–”

Ron snorts, shaking his head. “He won’t say anything,” he insists. “He’ll be too proud to tell anyone what happened. He won’t say a word. He was fucking terrified.”

“Wouldn’t you have been?” Hermione scolds, but then she falls silent abruptly, as if suddenly remembering that Severus is right there and that he might very well take offence.

Silence falls on them. Hermione hides her face in Ron’s shirt again, obviously uncomfortable with her outburst, while Severus stands there awkwardly.

“I think we should all get some sleep,” Ron says after some time. “You can crash on the sofa downstairs if you want,” he adds before Severus can even open his mouth to protest.

“Thank you,” Severus mutters.

“I’ll get you some blankets,” Hermione announces, pulling away from her boyfriend. “Third floor cupboard, yes?”

“I think so,” Ron says.

She disappears down the stairs swiftly.

Unsure what to do or say now that he’s alone with Ron, Severus shifts closer to the bedroom door to peek inside. The shape under the covers doesn’t appear to have moved an inch.

“Sometimes…” Ron starts softly from behind him. “Just… sometimes, I wish he liked girls…”

He pauses then, leaving the whole sentence suspended, as if to gather his thoughts. He hasn’t spoken angrily, or in any way that might reveal an opposition to Harry’s lifestyle or sexuality. His voice betrays only exhaustion, weariness.

Severus turns to him, frowning.

“That sounds terrible, I know, but I don’t mean it that way. Harry’s my best mate. I don’t care what he does or what he likes. I love him regardless. I don’t think anything could ever change that. What I mean is…” Ron pauses again, carefully picking his words. “Girls don’t hurt you like that. I mean… I know girls can still hurt you, but not the same way. They don’t… hold the same power over you. Not like men can. And I just… I don’t want Harry to feel powerless. Ever.”

Severus nods, turning to check on Harry again, but the shape on the bed still hasn’t moved.

“I hope I didn’t offend you,” Ron adds, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What I mean is…”

“I know what you mean,” Severus says softly. “You’re a good friend, Ron. I wish I’d had a mate like you when I was your age.”

“Thanks,” Ron replies after a pause. “I guess… I was wrong about you. Maybe if Harry’d met you sooner... I think that would have been a good thing.”

Severus only nods. They’re both uncomfortable now, and he decides not to add anything.

By the time Severus settles on the sofa on the first floor, it’s almost two in the morning, and the house has gone completely quiet. He watches the lights from passing cars spread patterns on the old wallpaper and then fade again into shadows.

Sleep is a long time coming. Even though he’s exhausted, physically drained, and can barely keep his eyes open, his brain just can’t seem to slow down enough for rest to settle. It keeps repeating the events of the last few days, over and over.

When he finally falls asleep, recent memories blend into old ones, forming strange, vaporous dreams so lightly formed they’re barely even dreams at all. But Harry is present throughout, his face the only constant in the amalgam of scenes and settings drifting through Severus’ mind.

Harry is dancing with him in the cramped kitchen at Spinner’s End, and then grinning at him across the classroom as Professor Binns drones on and on. Harry is curled up by his side on the narrow bed in Oxford, smiling sleepily at him, and next second, he’s sipping espresso, eyes bright on the sunlit terrace of Severus’ favourite café. Then Harry is kissing him on the cliffs of Cornwall, hair whipping around his face.

Severus wakes with the smell of salt water, and the taste of Harry on his lips, and the first few notes of Chopin’s _Nocturne in C Minor_ playing in his head.

It’s dawn already. White light filters in through the dirty windows overlooking the street. There’s the distinct sound of the stairs creaking under someone’s soft footsteps, and then silence again as whoever is wandering through the house disappears down into the entrance hall.

Severus shifts, wincing at the pain in his shoulders and arms, and he has this vision, once again, of his hands around Draco’s neck. And he feels it again, for a split second, the uncontrollable anger that filled him only hours ago.

What would have happened if he’d been unable to let go? If he hadn’t snapped out of it? If Harry’s friends hadn’t been there? If there’d been no one to witness it?

He takes deep breaths, thinks about the dream again. If he closes his eyes, he can still see Harry’s face, feel Harry’s lips pressed onto his own, hear the furious ocean waves roaring.

He stands shakily and makes his way to the fourth floor, unable to resist the urge to check on Harry, to see him, even if it’s just as a barely-defined lump under a pile of blankets.

Ron’s bedroom door is open, and Severus takes a fleeting look inside. The lights are still off, but even the closed drapes can’t keep out the daylight. The bed is unmade and vacant. The bathroom door is open, and the lights are on, but he can’t see what’s going on from this angle. He can only hear soft voices coming from inside.

He continues down the hall and pushes Harry’s bedroom door open softly. It’s darker in there, the curtains much thicker, shivering in the wind from the open window. Harry’s bed is vacant also, and the door leading into the shared bathroom is opened on his side, too. Severus makes his way to it quietly.

“–such a fucking idiot,” comes Harry’s soft voice, strained and on the verge of tears.

“Please don’t say that,” Severus hears Hermione protest gently.

Neither of them notices his presence when he stops, half hidden by the door, to look inside.

Hermione stands there, helpless, still in her pyjamas. There’s a tired, sad, conflicted look on her face. Next to her, Harry is sitting on the toilet lid, his head in his hands. He’s wearing Severus’ old, oversized t-shirt still, the neckline of which reveals the delicate curve of his shoulder.

Severus feels his stomach drop, stunned by the sight. Even here, now, like this – red-eyed and tousled-haired and despondent – Harry’s so fucking beautiful it shakes him to his very core.

“No, I am,” Harry says in anguish. “Ron’s right. I should know better by now. I don’t even know what… what we did, or if we… I can’t remember, Hermione. I’m scared…”

He looks up at his friend with tear-filled eyes and a helplessness that makes it almost unbearable for Severus not to intervene. It’s all he can do not to just burst in and wrap the boy in his arms. The sight of Harry’s face, still swollen and already turning all shades of black and blue, makes standing by even more difficult. But Severus doesn’t dare move an inch.

He watches as Hermione makes a muffled sound, like a choked moan, and then she’s kneeling next to Harry, grasping his hand.

“I’ll go with you, okay?” she whispers thickly. “We’ll go today, get it over with. I’m sure everything’s fine–”

“What if it isn’t?” Harry rasps, half anger, half fear. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Hermione repeats, her own voice shaking badly now. “You’re worried about nothing. I’ll go with you–”

Severus takes a small step back, suddenly afraid they’ll turn and see him, but the floor creaks under his weight and both teenagers startle.

Harry immediately looks away, wiping at his face.

“I’m sorry,” Severus says at once. “I didn’t mean to–”

“I don’t think this is the right time–” Hermione starts before Harry cuts her off.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, still looking away from Severus – either to hide his swollen face, or just to avoid looking at him at all.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says weakly, looking down at his feet now. “Just go away.”

God, Severus wants to hold him, to make everything else disappear, to erase the last few days from his mind. He just wants to pick up where they left off, to transport them back into bed on that perfect, divine, surreal morning, where they were warm and safe and together. And to never let Harry leave that bed. Work be damned, Ron’s bloody birthday party be damned. Severus just wants to go back and stay in bed with Harry until the end of time.

“I’m not leaving until we talk,” he says.

Harry doesn’t reply, just sighs heavily. Hermione stands, putting a hand on his shoulder and running her fingers through his hair gently.

“I’ll get dressed, and then we’ll go, okay?”

Harry nods shakily, and Hermione throws one last glance towards Severus – encouragement and warning all at once – before disappearing into Ron’s bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Severus just stands there. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he’s been rehearsing, repeating to himself for days, but now that he has the chance to say it all, he doesn’t know where to begin.

He can’t fucking stand the way Harry avoids his gaze. As if he’s the guilty one. As if he’s the one who did something wrong, who ruined what they had, who broke Severus’ heart.

 _Harry takes everything personally_ , Hermione’s said.

“How are you feeling?” Severus asks, his mouth terribly dry.

“I’m fine. You can leave,” Harry says faintly, still not looking at him.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Harry only shrugs, staring down at his bare feet, so pale against the dark ceramic floor.

Severus steps fully into the room, approaching slowly. It strangely feels like he’s trying to tame a wild animal.

“I didn’t come here just because Lupin called me. I would have come regardless. I was on my way already when he called… Harry, look at me. Please.”

Harry does, his eyes bright and clear now, no longer hazy with whatever drugs he’d taken earlier. They’re filled with realisation, with remembrance of everything that’s happened, with fear and guilt and heartbreak. But Severus doesn’t look away from them. Even here, even now, he’ll never tire of looking into Harry’s eyes.

“Please talk to me,” he says gently.

“Hermione said that you went to see her,” Harry mumbles. “I didn’t know you were really going to Paris. I thought it was just an excuse… I thought you were just saying that because you didn’t want to see me anymore and you wanted me to go away…”

Severus shakes his head, his throat burning. “Why would you think that?”

Harry shrugs again, looking away, down towards where his hands are clasped on his lap, his beautiful fingers intertwined tightly together.

“I don’t know. It was just… from the way you acted. And the way you asked me about… Tom Riddle.” He pauses, swallowing with difficulty. “I knew then that Draco’d told you everything and I was afraid it would scare you away… And then you wouldn’t answer your phone–”

“He didn’t tell me,” Severus interrupts. “He just told me to look him up. I don’t know everything. I just… I just know.”

Harry keeps silent, looking at his hands still. Then he nods, barely perceptible.

“I should have talked to you about it,” Severus continues. “We should have discussed it.”

He waits for Harry to contribute, but still, again, the boy remains silent.

 _Please_ , Severus begs him internally. _Please just say something. Yell at me if you want to. Please just talk. Let me know you haven’t completely given up…_

“I wanted to talk to you about it,” Harry says softly, finally looking up at him again. “But you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Severus kneels next to him, and he takes Harry’s hands in his own, tentatively – the wild animal again, ready to attack or cower – grasping his fingers gently.

“I’m sorry about that,” he blurts out. “About everything…”

He trails off, at a loss for words.

Fuck! Everything he’s rehearsed, everything he’s repeated in his head, all these words he’s been waiting to tell Harry, all the things he’s promised himself he would let Harry know… Where the fuck are they now? Why can’t he find them again?

“Forgive me,” Severus hears himself say pathetically. “I have… no excuse.”

Harry snorts then, a startling, bitter sound in the silence of the room. Suddenly there’s something like anger on his face – or like resignation.

“So, it _did_ scare you away,” he says, holding back tears. “I scared you away…”

Severus shakes his head firmly. “It’s not you, Harry. It’s… complicated. I had to go to Paris. I didn’t have a choice. There’s some things from my past that I couldn’t ignore any longer. My life, before… it was a lot… You have to understand that…”

Harry pulls his hands away swiftly, out of Severus’ grip, and he strands abruptly. Severus stands, too, retreating closer to the wall.

For a second, he thinks Harry’s going to bolt, to run from the room, but he doesn’t. He looks up into Severus’ face with a poignant look of mixed emotions – anger, defiance, profound sadness.

“You think I’m too much,” he says quietly. “You think I’m too heavy, that I come with too much baggage. And you don’t need that in your life. I get it. You don’t have to explain or apologise or make excuses. It’s happened before. It happens… all the time,” he adds, his voice breaking. “I just… I thought you’d be different.”

And then Harry can’t hold it in anymore. He’s gasping for breath, tears streaming freely down his face.

“Don’t cry,” Severus begs him. “Please, don’t cry. That’s not what I meant at all.”

He reaches out to try and hug Harry, only to get his arms slapped away and his body pushed weakly against the wall.

“I thought…” Harry cries out in between sobs. “I thought we had something…”

“We did! We do! Please, just let me…”

Severus tries again to hold him. If only he could just hold him, everything would be alright. He’s sure of it! Like that time earlier, when Harry was scared, and he couldn’t breathe, and Severus had just held him, soothed him. But Harry pushes him away again, roughly this time.

“Don’t!” Harry only says furiously.

“Listen, please…”

“You made me think that… that we were the same!” Harry accuses him, sobbing heavily. “You made me believe it!”

“I just… I didn’t mean to…”

“Just go!” Harry shouts. “Fuck off! I don’t want to see you anymore!”

The door leading to Ron’s bedroom swings open and Hermione comes back in, fully dressed and alarmed.

“I think you should–” she starts, turning to Severus.

But Severus ignores her, looking only at Harry. “Please, just give me a chance to explain.”

He keeps his distance, though, hands raised in surrender, because Harry looks positively furious now, eyes blazing with anger and betrayal.

“Just fuck off!” he shouts at Severus. “Get the fuck out!”

“Harry, calm down–” Hermione says, stepping in between the two of them.

“What’s going on?”

Severus turns to see Ron standing in the doorway of Harry’s room, holding a bag of ice.

“Ron!” Harry cries out between sobs, reaching for his friend. “Ron, make him leave!”

“What the fuck happened now?” Ron asks again, confused, as Harry starts crying into his shirt, uncontrollably.

“I don’t want to see him anymore!” Harry weeps. “Make him go away!”

Ron looks at Severus reproachfully over Harry’s shoulder. But before Severus can come up with anything to say to defend himself or try to make amends, Hermione is grabbing his arm and leading him away from the two boys.

“Just go,” she insists. “We’ll talk to him. Just go home.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Severus mumbles helplessly, letting her pull him into the hallway and away from the sound of Harry’s sobs. “I just tried to explain…”

“I know,” she says softly. “Just go home. I’ll call you.”

Harry’s cries follow Severus as he makes his way downstairs and out of the house. He meets Tamlyn on the stairs, looking messy-haired and just barely awake, as she dashes up to see what’s going on. She says something to him as she passes, but he doesn’t listen.

It’s so early the train is almost empty, and Severus sits by himself at one end of the carriage, huddled in a corner, and he rests his head against the wall. He’s so tired he contemplates just saying here, in this very spot, until the end of the line. Until someone comes and tries to rob him. Until someone comes to kick him off the train. Until the police comes to take him away.

He would let anyone do anything to him at this point. None of it matters.

But his feet lead him back to the flat somehow, surely using the very last ounce of his energy, because all he can do when he gets home is fall into bed, curl up, and just lie there.

Severus stares at the pinprick in the wall, breathing deeply. He grabs the duvet and wraps it around his body, searching for warmth that doesn’t come.

He’s back where he started. There’s no denying it, is there? Cold and alone and contemplating everything he’s lost. He’s completely wrecked. Once again. Just like before he met Harry.

_You’ll be fine, Severus. Don’t let it take over and you’ll be fine. Just don’t let it be like before…_

But it’s not like before. This isn’t like losing Colin and running away. Because there’s no running away, there’s no forgetting this. Just like there was no forgetting Colin, there’s no forgetting Harry’s eyes, Harry’s smiles, Harry’s lips, his body… his soul.

There’s no forgetting any of this. It will follow Severus for the rest of his life.

As he stares piercingly at the small hole in the wall, Severus can’t help but wonder, will he be able to go on? Will he be able to live his life, to keep writing, keep eating, keep going to the shops, keep seeing his friends and family, all the while knowing that the giant sinkhole in the centre of his life is of his own making? Will he be able to meet someone new, to start a relationship with another man, all the while knowing they’ll never be anything else than second best? A spare. A replacement.

He’s loved before and he will love again. But something has shifted now.

There will always be two different versions of Severus. The one before Harry, and the one after.

Actually, there’s three of them. But the one during – the man he was with Harry by his side – is a version of himself Severus refuses to think about.

 

* * *

 

He sleeps and sleeps. He sleeps and wakes and then sleeps some more. But he doesn’t dream. For once in his bloody life, he doesn’t dream. And it’s a fucking godsend.

It’s almost enough to give him a morsel of hope. If he doesn’t dream of Harry, if he doesn’t wake with the taste of Harry on his lips any longer, or with the ghostly feel of Harry’s skin brushing his own, they maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to go on.

When he finally pulls himself out of bed, a whole day and night have passed since he’s left Grimmauld Place, and it’s well past noon already.

It’s rainy and dreary outside. How fitting.

He checks his phone, just in case. Hermione still hasn’t called, but Constance has. Three times since yesterday. He doesn’t call her back.

He’s rummaging through the kitchen, still wrapped up in the duvet he’s just been dragging around with him, trying to find something he can stand the thought of putting in his mouth without fighting the urge to throw up, when sudden hammering against the front door startles him.

When he opens, just enough to get a glimpse at whoever’s on the other side, Severus is greeted by a furious Constance.

She’s just about to tear him a new one when she stops short at the sight of him, and the anger vanishes from her face.

He must look bloody ghastly to stop her ranting short before it’s even started.

“You want to come in?” he croaks. “I was just about to make some tea.”

He doesn’t have the energy or even the will to fight her or to argue. And honestly, he’s almost grateful for the company. With someone else here, maybe he won’t be as aware of what’s missing.

“Yes,” she says softly. “I’d love some tea.”

He lets her in and takes her coat, all in silence. She’s dressed for work. Maybe she’s on a late lunch break, or she’s finished early. Or she’s just had enough of his silence and has impulsively decided to drop by. He doesn’t ask.

“Mint with honey?”

She nods, watching silently as he puts the kettle on and grabs two cups from the cupboard. He takes his time, careful to keep his back turned so he doesn’t have to look her in the face.

“I’m worried about you, Sev…” she begins as he gets the tea bags ready – mint for her and Earl Grey for himself.

“No need to. I’m fine,” he says mechanically, numbly.

“Then why are you covered in blood?” Constance asks shakily.

Severus freezes. He’s rid himself of the duvet he was wrapped into, so he could prepare the tea, allowing her to see all of him. He looks down at himself. The front of his shirt is stained with brownish-red splotches – drops of it, smeared patches of it.

Hasn’t he changed his clothes since Grimmauld Place? When was the last time he showered?

“It’s… it’s not mine,” he stammers. “Just… let me get changed… I forgot…”

He practically runs into the bedroom, strips the shirt off roughly, not even bothering to unbutton it, and throws it in the hamper. Then he pulls on a clean t-shirt, hands shaking.

_Pull yourself together, Severus!_

Constance is still standing in the same spot when he returns, smoothing her hands over her skirt, then pushing her hair back, as if unsure what to do with herself. He’s never seen her uncomfortable in his presence before.

He barely glances at her before turning back to check on the kettle, as if nothing unusual has happened at all.

“Are you in trouble, Sev? Please be honest with me.”

“I’m not in trouble, no,” he says quietly. “I don’t think so, at least.”

“Oscar told me you called him. What did you want with Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

Severus looks piercingly at the kettle, as if the weight of his stare could make the water inside it boil faster.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he replies.

“What… what did you do?”

“I didn’t kill anyone, if that’s what you’re implying,” he says dryly. “That wasn’t his blood.”

Constance sighs, part relief part irritation. “Will you just talk to me? Please?”

“He hurt someone I love. I wanted to get back at him,” Severus snaps at her.

Constance doesn’t reply. His back is still turned to her, but he clearly hears the shaky breath she takes before putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Who… who did he hurt?” she asks cautiously, sounding almost fearful.

“I told you, it doesn’t matter anymore!” he rasps out.

He meant to shout those, but the words have no weight, no anger, nothing.

And then, unexpectedly, involuntarily, a moan escapes his throat. Without permission, without warning. And once it’s out, he can’t take it back. And immediately, Constance knows.

She wraps her arms around him at once, and he reciprocates, burying his face in her shoulder.

“It’s over. I’ve ruined everything…” he manages to add before his throat shuts completely and any more talking becomes impossible. If he opens his mouth now, it’s sobs that will come out, not words.

And he has no right to cry anymore. He’s not allowed to feel any more self-pity, because he’s brought all this on himself.

They stand there for a long time, neither of them speaking, just embracing, just holding each other tight. When the kettle starts to boil, and its shrill cry pierces the silence, Constance removes it and turns off the burner.

“Sit,” she says softly. “I’ll take care of it.”

He obeys, taking a seat at the table, and watches as she pours the tea herself. When she’s done, she sits down next to him. And she nods calmly.

Severus tells her everything.

He tells her all about his first few weeks back in London, when he felt more dead than alive, when all he ever did was sleep and dream, and dream and sleep, and wake only to sleep again and dream again. When all he did was try to forget and learn to lie to himself better and better. And he tells her about that day when he’d finally managed to trick himself into leaving the flat, about the appointment he’d tried to make but ended up missing on purpose. He even tells her about his trip to Old Compton and about the stranger he’d kissed in the pub.

After that, he tells her about meeting Lupin in _The Three Broomsticks_ and being invited for tea. And of course, he tells her about meeting Harry for the first time.

Severus tries to describe Harry to her, but there’s no words to explain just how beautiful Harry is, inside and out. How can he make her understand how the sight of Harry is enough to take someone’s breath away? Or how astounding, how fascinating his mind is? How brave and strong he is? And so, words fail him again and again as he speaks, and Severus ends up getting upset and confused. But Constance only reaches out, taking his hand in hers.

He tries to explain how it felt that day, watching Harry disappear down that platform without being able to stop him. He tries to describe the following days, the feeling of loss, so strong and unexpected. Then he tells her about seeing Harry again at the market, about following him from a distance. And yes, about kissing him on the train.

He talks about dinner and the night that followed, and how he’d noticed Harry’s fear and started questioning everything but was too scared to ask. Then he talks about the fight, and how Harry had stormed off, terrified and sobbing. And he tells her about the reconciliation, and Harry’s confession about the fire. And that wonderful, perfect, blissful night.

He doesn’t go into details here, of course. But she understands.

He tells her about the following day, Harry’s other confessions, in the bathroom, and then in the cellar. He recalls the birthday celebration at the pub, and the events at _Morsmordre_. His conversation with Draco and the warnings. The little boy in the cupboard and the search for Tom Riddle. And the separation.

As he reveals more and more pieces of the puzzle, Constance’s eyes fill with tears. But she keeps silent, listening the whole time without interruption.

Severus talks about the trip to Paris and the alcohol and the panic attacks in the hotel room and all the phone calls he couldn’t bring himself to answer. About the apartment and the memories and the letter left in Éluard’s book. About Étienne and their long-overdue talk, and his visit to the columbarium and the return to London with the determination to make things right.

He tells Constance about his quest to find Harry, about the talks with Ginny and Dana, about the unanswered phone calls and the one conversation with Draco. He tells her about his desperate trip to Oxford and the visit to Hermione, about her revelations and her promise.

And then the wait. The terrible wait. The return to London and the desire for revenge that prompted him to ask Oscar for Draco’s address. The phone call from Lupin. And everything, everything that’s happened at Grimmauld Place afterwards.

When he finally runs out of things to say, Severus trails off into silence. They’ve barely touched their tea, as immersed as they’ve both been in the story.

Constance sits there for a while without speaking, contemplating what he’s said.

“Ella mentioned you’d met someone,” she says then, quietly. “But I didn’t think that was the reason you were so…”

“Distant?” he finishes for her.

She smiles faintly, then nods. “I mean… you’ve always been… well, a little standoffish. I thought you were just brooding.”

Severus snorts softly. “I’m good at that, aren’t I?”

“God, you’re the best at that.” She grins, taking a sip of cold tea before grimacing and setting the cup back on the table.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take your calls,” he says.

She only shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter one bit. “What are you going to do now?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing more to do. It’s over–”

“Why would you think that?” Constance interrupts, looking offended. “Hermione said she would call–”

“And she hasn’t.”

“Give it time, Sev,” she sighs, exasperated with him. “You can’t expect things to just magically fix themselves…”

“Giving it time is all I’ve been doing, Constance!” he snaps, perfectly conscious of how immature and whiny he sounds. “Being patient! Waiting! I’ve had my chance to explain, and he wouldn’t hear it. I’ve tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but he wouldn’t listen. I’ve tried to apologise, he told me to leave. He said he never wanted to see me again. It’s over,” he repeats weakly.

_Wow. So much for not allowing yourself any more self-pity…_

“The sooner I come to terms with that,” he adds, more steadily, regaining some countenance, “the sooner I can start trying to–”

“To what?” she says skeptically. “To get over it? Have you seen yourself, Sev? I’ve never seen you like this before. You’re a bloody mess.”

“Yes, thank you. I know,” he snaps.

She frowns at him moodily. _Don’t you fucking talk to me like that again, Severus Prince!_ she means.

“Sorry,” he grumbles at once.

“I’m just saying that maybe you should go see him again. One last time. He’s had time to rest, to recover. I’m sure he’d listen to you now. I’m sure there’s still hope.”

Severus shakes his head. “I just… can’t keep doing this,” he says softly, honestly. “If he doesn’t… if he tells me to leave again… I can’t go through that again.”

Constance remains silent, her blue eyes very bright and clear. She looks as if she might cry.

“Listen,” she says after a while, reaching out to put her hand on top of his. “I think… maybe you should go see that therapist you were–”

The rest of her sentence is interrupted by a series of soft knocks at the door.

Severus’ heart jolts. Who could that be? Barely anyone knows where he lives.

It could be Oscar, but that’s unlikely. His cousin is a busy man, and not the kind to make house calls. It could be Constance, except she’s already sitting next to him. It could be the concierge, for various reasons. It could be a neighbour, for various reasons also. It could be…

It could be Hermione. Maybe Harry’s given her his address. But why would she show up instead of calling? She has his number.

His heart starts pounding heavily and he’s forced to admit that it could also be the police, or some other form of trouble. He’s almost strangled a teenage boy to death two days ago, after all. A boy whose father is terribly well-connected, and according to rumours, terribly dangerous.

But would the police or Lucius Malfoy’s goons knock so softly, so hesitantly?

Unlikely.

It can only be one person then…

“You should get it,” Constance says as another series of knocks begin.

“I don’t… I… I’m not…” Severus stutters.

“Get it,” she prompts, more firmly.

He stands on shaky legs, rushes to the door.

_Quick! Quick before he leaves!_

Harry’s fist is raised to knock again when Severus pulls the door open.

They just stare at each other for a moment, equally surprised to see the other, it seems. Or relieved, maybe?

“Oh,” Harry says softly, hand dropping to his side. “Sorry I didn’t ring, I think the intercom’s broken–”

“It’s not broken. I just never got it linked to my phone.”

“Oh. Well… one of your neighbours let me in, so… I hope it’s okay.”

“It’s okay. Of course, it is… It’s okay.”

Severus breathes in deeply, taking in the sight of him. The pang of longing strikes again, rattling through his ribcage, resounding all the way through his guts, to the foundations of his soul.

_Just hold him… Just take him in your arms, let him know everything is okay now…_

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he says tightly instead.

“Well,” Harry says faintly. “I know I said… I just… I thought maybe I should…”

He trails off, looking away. He’s shivering.

Severus is aware that he’s staring intensely, so much so that Harry’s probably uncomfortable under his gaze. But he can’t help it. He feels like a blind man who’s just suddenly been blessed with sight. He just can’t stop looking at Harry.

The swelling in his cheek has diminished considerably, but the skin under his eye has turned a dark, ugly purple, almost black. The contrast, in the paleness of his face, is incredibly striking.

He’s wearing his usual coat, the navy blue one, and is wrapped up in a scarf for once. The fact that he’s soaking wet is the last thing Severus notices.

“I got caught in the rain,” Harry explains, stating the obvious.

“Everything okay, Sev?” Constance calls from the inside.

Harry shifts uncomfortably, startled. “I’ll come back later,” he announces, but Severus grabs his arm gently before he can leave.

“No, please. Come in. Please. It’s okay.”

He pulls Harry inside, and thankfully, miraculously, Harry lets him.

God, the bruise on his face looks even worse in this light. Severus wants to hold him so fucking badly his hands shake.

“Hi,” Constance says as Severus shuts the front door.

He turns to see her standing there, near the kitchen table, still holding her cup of cold tea. She’s smiling at Harry softly – a curious, polite sort of smile. Seeing her reaction, you wouldn’t think she’d heard anything about Harry at all, or that they’d just been talking about him minutes before.

Ever the tactful one, Constance.

“Hello,” Harry says, a little shyly perhaps, looking somewhat at a loss for words. He obviously wasn’t expecting Severus to have company.

“This is my cousin Constance,” Severus tells him. “And this is Harry.”

“Nice to meet you,” Constance greets, walking over.

Harry smiles nervously as they shake hands. “I can come back later,” he tells Severus again.

“Oh, no, no,” Constance says. “I was just leaving. Is it raining a lot?” she asks Harry.

“It’s… well, yes.”

She frowns. “Oh, that’s a bother. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I think I’ll just get a cab, then. Sev, you’ll come to dinner on Sunday, yes?” she asks casually, as if they’ve just been discussing this before Harry’s arrival and she wants to confirm.

“Yes, of course,” Severus says, playing along.

“Good,” Constance declares, smiling brightly before leaning in to hug him goodbye. “ _Oh, Sev, he’s beautiful_ ,” she whispers in his ear, barely audibly, before pulling back.

“See you on Sunday,” Severus tells her as she pulls on her coat.

“I’m counting on it. Goodbye, Harry. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Harry says quietly, watching her go.

They stand there awkwardly after she’s left, barely daring to look each other in the face. Harry sniffs, wiping the water that’s dripping from his hair to his face.

“I’ll get you a towel,” Severus says in a rush, already on his way down the corridor. “Just wait here,” he calls out.

He stumbles into the bathroom in a hurry, grabs a towel from a shelf. But before he heads back out, he looks at himself in the mirror for a moment.

_Just breathe, Severus. Pull yourself together. Don’t lost your shit. Just keep calm, take it easy. Don’t scare him off._

When he returns, Harry is taking his boots off. Severus helps him out of his coat with some difficulty – the fabric is stiff with rain – then drapes it over a chair to dry. Harry takes the towel gratefully, then starts drying his hair, rubbing hard until it sticks up every which way, in the messy nest of soft black curls Severus absolutely adores.

“Would you like some tea?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to ask.

“Yes, please.”

“Earl Grey okay?”

Harry just nods, shivering slightly.

“You can sit,” Severus tells him, gesturing in the general direction of the kitchen table while he heads back to the kettle. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Harry heads to the sofa instead, and he sits stiffly, just on the edge of it, as if ready to bolt. He looks like a beaten puppy, confused and hurt and fearful following an unfair punishment. Severus watches from the kitchen as he shifts uncomfortably, then finally leans back further into the cushions, relaxing a bit.

“Milk and sugar?” Severus asks softly.

“Yes… please. Thank you,” Harry says, with a slight tremor to his voice, shooting a brief glance over his shoulder.

By the time Severus has poured the tea and is walking over to him with two steaming cups, Harry is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, arms wrapped around his body.

“Thanks,” he whispers when Severus hands him the cup, and he wraps his fingers around it, cradling it safely, sniffing at the tea with a pleased sigh.

He’s wearing a thick jumper, in black wool, just slightly too big for him. Severus has the feeling that it might belong to Ron. The sleeves are long, covering Harry’s hands to the knuckles. Only the tips of his fingers are poking out.

“Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine. Really, I’m okay…”

But Severus is already grabbing the thick afghan from the window-seat. He drapes it around Harry’s shoulders, brushing the side of Harry’s jaw with the back of his hand in the process. The way Harry leans into the touch, just for a second, tugs at his heart painfully.

He doesn’t sit next to Harry. It seems like overstepping boundaries somehow, so he abstains. He sits on top of the end-table instead, right in front of Harry, and cradles his own cup of tea tightly. It burns his hands, but it’s the only way to stop himself from touching Harry.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says after some time, when it becomes obvious that Harry won’t speak first. “I could never be mad at you, I want you to know that. Especially for what happened.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, his eyes never leaving his teacup, which he’s gripping tighter still. “I didn’t mean what I said yesterday, when I said I didn’t want to see you again. And I’m sorry I told you to fuck off,” he adds, practically mumbling now. “I’m sorry I acted that way. I’m really… ashamed.”

“Harry, look at me.”

Harry finally raises his head and their eyes meet. Once again, the sight of his bruised face causes a spark of anger to shoot through Severus’ whole body.

“It’s okay. You had the right to react the way you did. You were tired and hurt, and I’m not mad at you for yelling. I’m not mad at you at all,” Severus repeats. “It wasn’t your fault. None of this is. I don’t want you to hide how you feel. If you want to tell me to fuck off, then tell me.”

Harry smiles faintly, shaking his head, turning back to stare into his tea. “I don’t. It’s okay,” he mumbles. “I should have let you explain. I don’t know why I... The last few days… I don’t remember much of what happened,” he admits. “It’s all sort of a haze, just vague images. But I know I was with Draco, and he isn’t always… careful…”

He trails off, looking embarrassed, ashamed, carefully avoiding Severus’ gaze.

“I went to the clinic yesterday,” he finishes softly. “To get tested. Hermione came with me. I was just really scared when I talked to you, and I said things… I’m sorry.”

“But you’re… you’re okay, aren’t you?” Severus asks, heart pounding in terror.

Harry nods. “I’m okay. Everything’s fine. I went to see Dr. Mann afterwards. Usually I only see her once a month now, but she made an exception. That’s my therapist. I was going to stop by after to apologise, but… I was tired. I went home… What is it?” he asks, frowning at the look on Severus’ face.

“Dr. Adeline Mann?” Severus probes, dumbfounded.

“Yes.”

“That’s your therapist?” he asks again.

“Yes… Why? Do you know her?”

Severus shakes his head in disbelief. “When I left Paris, my therapist there recommended her,” he explains slowly. “I was meant to go see her on the thirteenth, but I was late and I… I mean, I changed my mind. I made it all the way there, but then I turned back.”

Harry stares at him, eyes wide with incredulity. “On the thirteenth? What time?”

“Three o’clock.”

Harry shakes his head, and then he’s laughing softly, astounded. “I was her one-thirty that day,” he reveals. “If you’d gone, we’d have met…”

They look at each other silently as the implications of this dawn on them.

 _There are no coincidences, only encounters,_ Severus reminds himself.

 _You see_ , he wants to tell Harry. _This is destiny. We were meant to meet. If we hadn’t met the way we did, we’d have met another way…_

“Severus,” Harry says quietly after a while, looking away.

He looks hesitant, and he’s avoiding Severus, eyes again, staring into his tea.

“What is it?”

“I came here because…” he starts, taking a deep breath. “I came to tell you what happened… with Tom Riddle–”

Severus puts a reassuring hand on his knee. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything, Harry. I mean it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want–”

“I want to tell you,” Harry interrupts honestly. “I trust you. And… well, better you hear it from me than from someone else who doesn’t know shit about what happened.”

Severus stares into his face for a moment, searchingly. “Are you sure?”

Harry nods, eyes bright and honestly. “I want to,” he repeats. “I want you to know.”

“Okay.”

Harry takes a deep, deep breath, then gulps down a large sip of tea, wincing as he swallows. He’s silent for almost a full minute before he speaks.

“I was eleven when I met him,” he starts quietly. “I’d just started Hoggarts. He wasn’t even my teacher then. He taught Sixth Form.”

Harry pauses, tightening his hands around the cup.

Severus waits patiently – fearfully, also. But it doesn’t matter, he’ll listen anyway. Whatever Harry says, he’ll listen. If Harry had to suffer through it, he’ll listen and suffer, too.

“Everybody loved him,” Harry continues. “He was a good teacher, and he was so handsome.” He looks up at Severus and grins, obviously trying to make light of the situation. “Not as handsome as you, though…”

He trails off, letting his grin fade, and takes a sip of tea.

“How old was he?” Severus asks, finally voicing the question that’s been eating at him for days.

“Twenty-nine.”

Severus shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply.

 _Eighteen years_.

“He was real good friends with Miss Burbage, my violin teacher,” Harry explains, looking away because he knows what Severus is thinking. “And he was a music lover, he said. He liked to stay after lessons for rehearsals and recitals.”

He falls silent again, drinking his tea in small, tentative sips, while Severus waits.

“I can’t even recall how it started exactly,” Harry adds, shaking his head. “It’s funny how–”

He stops, shooting Severus a wary look. _Sorry,_ he seems to say. _It’s not funny._

When he speaks again, it’s quietly, almost timidly. “What I mean is, it’s hard for me to remember how it happened. All I know is that I always felt invisible, and… somehow, he saw me. There was no one and then suddenly, he was there. He would talk to me, ask me how my day went, what I liked to read, what composers I loved. He was genuinely interested,” he adds, looking Severus straight in the eyes as if daring him to disagree. “It wasn’t pretend.”

 _Wasn’t it?_ Severus wants to ask. He wants to scream and rage, but he doesn’t. He promised himself he would listen, so he says nothing.

Harry averts his eyes, suddenly embarrassed, like he knows exactly what Severus is thinking.

“We would talk for hours,” he continues softly. “He was so intelligent and elegant. I was intimidated at first, but he was kind to me. He never made me feel small or inadequate.”

 _Why are you defending him?_ Severus wants to yell, anger streaking through him. _Why would you defend him after what he did to you?_

“He said Harry wasn’t the right name for me, that it was too common, that it didn’t do me justice. He would call me Hadrian… I liked it,” Harry says quietly. “It made me feel grown-up, sophisticated. And he would touch me,” he adds. “Nothing bad. Just little things, like patting my back, putting a hand on my shoulder. That sort of thing. No one had ever really… touched me before. Well, not like they liked me.”

Severus nods, gripping the cup tightly in his hands.

“He told me he knew what being lonely was like,” Harry reveals. “He said he was an orphan, too, and that he understood how that felt. He said I reminded him of himself when he was younger…” Harry pauses, shaking his head helplessly. “It felt like the best compliment in the world.”

Severus can imagine it all, and it hurts terribly. He can see Harry in his mind’s eye. He can picture young Harry so clearly – a devastatingly beautiful child, surely. A lonely, unloved child, seeking approval. Anyone’s approval.

Hermione’s hypothesis was right, of course. Harry was vulnerable, and Riddle had noticed, had taken advantage.

What a perfect prey Harry must have been.

Severus feels nauseous just thinking about it.

Harry sighs, looking back at him tentatively, sensing his anger. “I know now that… They told me that’s what people like him do. They tell you the stuff you want to hear. They’re good at it. But still… it felt nice.”

“I understand,” Severus admits faintly.

“It didn’t happen all at once, you know,” Harry explains. “It wasn’t just… It took time.”

 _He needed to draw you in_ , Severus thinks harshly, but he doesn’t say anything. He only nods. He can’t fathom how Harry can possibly talk about this so openly, so casually.

“I was boarding at Hoggarts,” Harry continues. “I would stay the whole term. Even when the other kids went home on the weekends, I always stayed. I didn’t feel like going to the Dursleys, my aunt and uncle,” he adds, “and they didn’t like having me around anyway, so I was happy to stay at school.”

He trails off, drinks some tea. Severus has been regulating his breathing, holding onto his own cup tightly. He knows where this is all going, and he’s on edge.

“That first year, Tom asked if I would like to spend the Christmas holidays at his house. But he was a teacher, and he said if anyone found out there’d be trouble, that the other kids would think he was doing me favours and they would be jealous. He told me not to say anything to anyone. He made it look like I was going home, but he took me to his house instead.”

Severus swallows around the burning lump in his throat, listening raptly, fearfully.

“We went and picked out a tree to decorate and we watched movies and cooked Christmas dinner. I was so happy. I felt… wanted. And then, on the second night, we were sitting on the sofa, watching a movie, when he asked if he could kiss me,” Harry recalls, looking away towards the window. “He was stroking my hair, and I was so comfortable… I’d never felt like this before. Safe, and loved. I said yes,” he whispers. “I thought he meant just a peck on my cheek, but he kissed me… deeply. With tongue. I didn’t know what to do. At first, I was scared that if I pulled away he would be upset, but he was gentle, and so I tried to… I tried to do like I’d seen the older kids do at school.”

He rubs his face, embarrassed, and sneaks a brief look at Severus before turning towards the window again, watching the downpour outside.

“He would kiss me all the time after that,” he continues softly. “Whenever we were alone and there was no chance of getting caught. Sometimes he would… he would get hard. I could feel him pressing against me. I knew what it meant. I wasn’t stupid. But I would just… ignore it. I didn’t really know what to make of it. I mean, I couldn’t… I guess I couldn’t imagine that anyone would want me like that. That he would want me, but… I didn’t want that,” he says suddenly, as if afraid Severus might get the wrong idea. “I mean, I was okay with just kissing. And he seemed to be, too. For a long time.”

He looks Severus in the eyes again, and he hesitates. Severus tries to relax his face and he nods in what he hopes is a comforting way.

“I think he was afraid to take things further,” Harry continues. “He knew it would change everything if he made that move, and nothing happened for some time. We would just kiss. Until one night when we were in his office. He was kissing me, and when he pulled away, he was breathing heavily, panting. And he was so hard. I could feel him. Then he looked at me and… he asked if I’d ever… if I’d ever seen a man’s cock.”

Severus swallows, taking a deep, shaky breath and struggling to fight the tears he can already feel burning behind his eyes.

“I said no,” Harry whispers, looking down into his tea again. “I couldn’t believe he was asking me that. It felt so surreal. Then he asked if I wanted to… to see one. I said no, but he pulled it out anyway. And he asked if I wanted to touch it. I didn’t want to, but… the look on his face… He was breathing hard, like Uncle Vernon did right before he got mad. I couldn’t believe that was happening. Tom was… he looked like a different person then, like someone I’d never met. I didn’t know what to do…”

Harry stops, out of breath. Severus puts both their cups down and grabs the boy’s shaking hands in his, holding them gently.

“He came as soon as I brushed him with my fingers,” Harry mumbles. “I remember… how he groaned… how he cleaned himself up… And he seemed so scared after that. I think he panicked. I think a part of him couldn’t believe he’d actually done it… He looked at me and he said… He said, _What the fuck was that?_ ”

Severus tries to clear his throat, but it comes out in a small moan, a pitiful whine, like an animal in pain. Harry is holding onto his hands tightly now, gripping them like a lifeline.

“I’d never heard him swear before,” he continues. “I just… I froze. _You’re not supposed to know how to do that,_ he said _. I’m going to have to tell at Hoggarts. They won’t let you stay when they find out. They don’t let boys like you attend a nice school like Hoggarts. They’ll send you home. You’ll never see your friends again. They’ll never let you play violin again…_ ”

Harry trails off, his voice breaking, and Severus leans in to cup his unbruised cheek gently with a shaking hand, caressing it with his thumb. Harry leans into the touch, his breath trembling as he goes on.

“I started crying,” he mutters. “I started crying so hard I could barely speak. I tried to explain that he was making a mistake, that I’d never done anything like that before, that I didn’t know… I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. But then he took me in his arms and he said he was sorry. And he apologised, over and over. He said he was just scared, that he liked what I’d done, that he liked me, he liked me so much, but he could get in trouble for it, for wanting to do those things with me. He said if people found out, they just wouldn’t understand. He said he didn’t meant to say those awful things, that he was just afraid.

“He bought me gifts after that. Nice clothes and a beautiful watch, like all the rich kids had. And he bought me a violin, an expensive one… He was scared I would tell, but he didn’t have it in him to threaten me.”

Harry stops, taking deep shaky breaths. He shuts his eyes tightly, as if trying to fight the memories.

“It wasn’t until almost a year later that he… that he made me…”

But then he tries to speak, and nothing comes out.

Severus caresses his face soothingly, wiping at a stray tear as soon as it falls. “Shhh. Just breathe. You don’t have to say any more. It’s okay, I understand.”

Harry nods, struggling to catch his breath. “I thought I could…” he chokes out. “I’m sorry… I want you… to know, but I…”

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Severus repeats, holding Harry’s face in both hands, fighting the urge to cry himself. “You don’t have to tell me... You must have been so scared.”

“I didn’t really… feel scared,” Harry says slowly when he’s managed to catch his breath. “Not exactly. It’s hard to describe. I guess I felt betrayed, most of all. Like he’d taken what we had and turned it into something ugly. He’d taken something good, and he turned it into something bad, something I didn’t want. He knew I needed him and he used it. He knew I’d never ask him to stop because I was afraid he’d leave me, and I’d be all alone. And I felt dirty for letting it happen, but at the same time I’d never… No one had ever… cared for me like that. But wasn’t all bad,” he adds, still avoiding Severus’ gaze. “He took care of me. He was there when I was sad, when I was afraid. Whatever I needed, he made sure I got it. I guess… some part of me felt like I owed him… And it wouldn’t really happen so often anyways… Most of the time he was kind to me…”

He trails off, looking back at Severus only briefly before letting his gaze drift back to the window.

How can he look so fucking calm when Severus feels like there’s a hurricane wrecking havoc inside his chest?

“What happened in Rome?” Severus manages to ask.

Harry smiles somewhat bitterly.

“Time went by is what happened. I grew up. I knew what was happening, you know. I wasn’t stupid. I knew about paedophiles and I thought that, eventually, I’d just… I’d probably get to a point when I would be too old to be appealing to him anymore… And I was dreading it, but looking forward to it all at once… I wanted to be free. He always needed to control everything, but I was growing up and I wanted to try new things and the more I grew up, the more trapped I felt with him. And he knew it, and I think he got scared. But I was scared, too. I was scared of what I would become if he decided he didn’t want me anymore… Because I didn’t have anyone else. So, I started pulling away, spending more time with my friends, and making plans without telling him. Because I wanted to make sure that I could go on, that I would have something if he left me. I wanted to make sure I could be alone if it came down to it. I was testing myself, I think. Maybe I was testing him, too.

“I entered a contest, a music competition, and I won and got to go to Rome for the summer. I didn’t even tell Tom about it, I just took off. I was fourteen and I wanted to see the world and experience everything…

“It was wonderful. I got to stay with a family there, the De Lucas. The father was a university professor, and the mother a concert cellist. They had a small daughter. I was to stay all summer, practice my Italian and play with an orchestra. And I met a boy. Matteo. He was the son of a family friend. He was my age…”

Harry trails off, smiling sadly.

“Kissing him was different,” he reveals. “I’d never kissed anyone other than Tom, and it felt so… It just felt so right, Sev. And when he looked at me, it felt right. And he introduced me to his friends, and he always wanted to go out and do things. I could be with him, you know. I didn’t have to hide or feel guilty. I didn’t feel dirty or embarrassed. I wanted to stay in Rome forever. I’d never been so happy in my life before.”

“And then Riddle came,” Severus says softly.

Harry nods, his eyes darkening. A tear falls down his cheek, and Severus wipes at it gently.

“I wasn’t happy to see him. Something had changed, and he knew that. First, I hadn’t told him I was leaving. He was already mad about that… and when he saw that I seemed happy without him… We got into… a terrible fight, and then… And then Andrea, the man I was staying with, Professor De Luca… he noticed something wasn’t right. When he found out that Tom was my professor from Hoggarts, he invited him to dinner, thought that was the polite thing to do. But they didn’t get along at all. Andrea suspected, right from the start, I think. And then he brought me into his office one night, he asked me to sit, and he took my hand, and… he asked me what was going on.”

Harry chokes out a sob then, shaking his head weakly.

“I was just so tired… I wanted Tom to leave. He’d said such horrible things to me the night before… I just wanted it to end. So, I told Andrea everything. All of it. He was crying by the end. And he took me in his arms and he held me. I cried for hours. It just felt so good… to finally say it.

“He invited Tom again the next day, but the police came and arrested him. He was brought back to London and there was a trial. I thought things would be easier after that, but I just made things worse for myself. Well, not worse, but… not better. Everyone at school thought I was lying. The Dursleys thought I was lying, too. They thought I’d manipulated an honest man and wanted to soil his reputation. They said I was a deviant. It got… really bad. That’s why I had to leave that place.”

Harry falls silent. They’re still holding hands, so tightly now it’s like it’s the only thing keeping them from dissolving, from ripping apart.

“I should have told you all this at the beginning,” Harry adds softly, finally looking into Severus’ eyes. “But I was so afraid.”

“If I didn’t answer your calls, if I was distant,” Severus starts, “it wasn’t because it scared me away. When I found out, Harry… it just made me so angry. And I didn’t know how to deal with it, with the thought that someone could have done that to you. I wanted to find him and… and hurt him… Maybe if the timing had been different, I could have found a way to handle it better… but I had to go to Paris and sort through Colin’s things… I had to face things I’d been avoiding for such a long time… I was a mess, Harry. I was a complete mess, and I thought… how could someone like me help you?” he finishes weakly.

Harry frowns. “I don’t want you to help me,” he says softly. “I’m not asking for that. I have a therapist for that, Sev. I just… I need you to know that it happened, that it’s a part of me. There are… good days and bad days. Sometimes I don’t think about it for weeks, and sometimes it’s all I can think about. I just need you to understand that and be there.”

“I will.”

“But I don’t want this to change anything,” Harry continues firmly. “I’m still the same person I was before I told you. It’s new for you, but it’s not for me. It happened years ago. None of this defines me anymore. It still hurts to talk about it, but I’ve spent years getting over it, and now I think I can finally say it’s behind me. For good. I don’t want you to be afraid to touch me or anything like that.”

“It doesn’t…. scare you?” Severus asks softly.

“Sex, you mean?”

“Yes…”

Harry frowns, seems to consider this for a moment, then shrugs.

“It’s… complicated,” he mumbles. “I don’t think it scares me, not exactly. In general, I like sex. It just depends on… on what I feel. I trust my instincts… It doesn’t scare me with you, if that’s what you want to know,” he reveals, throwing Severus a brief, somewhat shy look.

He pauses, as if trying to compose his thoughts. Severus wants to say something, but he can’t find the words. Harry’s just so brave… just so brave he’s speechless.

“What happened with Tom,” Harry says finally, “it didn’t really feel like… In a way, it didn’t really feel like sex. It was… I don’t know what it was, but it was different… Sometimes it’s like what happened to me didn’t really happen to me. It happened to someone else. It’s like it didn’t happen to _Harry_ , exactly. It happened to _Hadrian_ …”

Harry trails off, shaking his head, visibly upset at how difficult it is to put his thoughts into words.

“Dr. Mann says I’m really good at compartmentalising, but… I don’t know. I guess I don’t realise I’m doing it.”

“You’re so brave,” Severus breathes out shakily.

“I don’t think I’m brave. I think I’m lucky. I’ve met others, you know. I’ve been in group therapy enough times, and some of the kids who went through… well, not the same thing, because every case is different, but… similar things… they can’t always cope as well as I can. Some of them are so broken. And I’m able to function somewhat normally…” He shrugs. “There’s just… well, there’s things I don’t like… just like everybody else. Well, maybe not...”

“Things you don’t like,” Severus repeats heavily. “Triggers, you mean?”

Harry shrugs again. “I suppose.”

“What… kind of things? Will you tell me… what you don’t like?”

Harry nods, biting his lip, but he doesn’t avoid Severus’ gaze this time.

“I don’t like to… feel trapped. To be tied… or held down,” he begins.

Severus blinks repeatedly. Thank God… Thank God Harry hasn’t told him the whole of it, the whole of what Riddle did to him. There’s no way he could hear the details of this without falling apart.

“I don’t like… pain,” Harry reveals softly. “And… I know it’s stupid, but I don’t like toys.”

“It’s not stupid,” Severus mutters. His heart feels so clenched with anger it’s a wonder it’s able to keep pounding. “What else?”

“Names,” Harry adds. “I don’t like to be called names… during. I know sometimes it just slips out, but–”

“It doesn’t. It’s not supposed to.”

Harry shrugs uncomfortably. “Well…”

“It slips out with Draco, doesn’t it? What kind of names?”

“I don’t want to tell you,” Harry mumbles, shaking his head. “You’ll get mad.”

Severus takes a deep, shuddering breath, only now realising he’s been raising his voice. He caresses Harry’s knuckles with his thumb.

“What does he call you?” he asks again, gently.

“Slut,” Harry whispers. “Whore. Stuff like that. He thinks that because what happened to me didn’t… break me, that it’s because I liked it.” He shakes his head, helplessly. “I’ve tried to explain it to him, but there’s… really no explaining anything to Draco.”

Severus says nothing. He stares at their clasped hands, studying Harry’s fingers, concentrating on them.

“You’re mad,” Harry remarks. “I told you you’d get mad…”

“I’m not,” Severus insists, though the shaking in his voice betrays him. “I’m not mad.”

Harry frees his hands and leans in, letting his fingers caress the side of Severus’ jaw.

“I don’t want to see Draco anymore,” he reveals. “I don’t want to let him hurt me again. And I don’t want you to be mad about anything he did… None of it matters now.”

Severus nods, pressing Harry’s hand against his face before bringing it to his mouth gently and pressing a kiss into the palm. It’s still warm from being wrapped around the teacup, and from being held. He shuts his eyes, enjoying the moment, breathing deeply.

Yes, maybe he can forget about it all. Maybe it’s possible. As long as Harry’s here, with him. As long as he’s okay…

“Is it true what Baz said?” Harry asks cautiously. “Is it true that… that you made Draco piss himself?”

When Severus opens his eyes, he finds Harry’s face etched with disbelief and… something like fear, maybe…

_Oh God… please don’t let him be afraid of me…_

“I didn’t mean to,” Severus explains shakily. “I just… I got carried away… Does that scare you?”

“No… It’s just… I don’t know…” Harry trails off, but there’s no fear in his gaze now, only shock and something like wonder.

“I would never hurt you,” Severus assures him. “Never.”

Harry’s lips curl slightly. “I know,” he breathes out. “From the beginning, I’ve felt like I could trust you. It’s never happened to me before, not like this. Not so easily… I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first but… I feel safe with you,” he declares, eyes so clear, looking at Severus like he’s seeing him again for the first time. “I feel like… nothing bad could happen to me, because you wouldn’t let it.”

Severus leans forward, sitting on the very edge of the table. He leans towards Harry and presses his mouth to the corner of Harry’s lips in a soft touch, barely a kiss, grazing Harry’s cheek with his nose tenderly.

“I wouldn’t,” he whispers, cradling Harry’s head in his hands, pushing the hair away from his face. “I wouldn’t.”

They stay there for a time, foreheads pressed together, almost kissing, but not quite.

“What you did…” Harry begins quietly, staring deep into Severus’ eyes. “No one’s ever done something like that for me. Ron talks a lot, but… No one’s ever defended me like that. Protected me, I mean.”

“Everyone who’s ever hurt you, your whole life,” Severus mumbles, caressing the nape of Harry’s neck, “all of them… I would find them all for you, if you asked me–”

Harry cuts him off with a kiss.

It’s like the first time all over again, like that time on the train – a kiss so light it’s barely there at all but electrifying all the same. Severus doesn’t press or try to deepen it. Fear fills his heart still, and images of what Harry’s told him flash through his head. Images of what Harry hasn’t told him, also – his mind fills in the blanks, as always. So, he doesn’t press, he just takes whatever Harry’s giving him.

When he pulls back, slowly, reluctantly, Harry’s eyes are shut and there’s a light frown upon his face.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry looks back at him softly, smiling in reassurance. “I’m fine… I just have a headache,” he says probing at his sore cheek cautiously. “And I’m really tired.”

“You want to take a nap?” Severus asks, moving to tighten the blanket around Harry’s shoulders.

Harry hesitates, suddenly uncomfortable. “Can I?”

“Of course,” Severus assures him. “You want to lie down on the sofa or in my bed?”

Harry looks away, shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “In your bed, I guess. Only if that’s okay.”

Severus gets the bed ready while Harry’s in the bathroom. He changes the sheets and the pillowcases again for the new, dark purple ones he’s purchased. Then he cracks the window open before lowering the blinds.

Everything is ready by the time Harry walks into the room, yawning. He stops in front of Severus and slips both arms around his waist, cheek pressed against his chest.

“Get some rest,” Severus says softly, stroking his hair. “We’ll talk some more later, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles into his shirt.

And yet neither of them moves. Severus wraps his arms around Harry instead, burying his nose in Harry’s hair.

 _It’s okay now_ , he reminds himself. _Harry is here, safe, with you. Everything will be fine_.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispers into the dark curls. “Ever again.”

Harry looks up at him, and he’s so achingly beautiful it makes Severus’ heart drop.

 _I love you_ , Severus wants to tell him. _I love you. I love you. I love you_.

Severus wants to tell him and keep telling him until the end of time.

“You want to get in under the covers?” he asks instead.

Harry nods tiredly and pulls back to take off his jeans and socks. Then, dressed only in his boxers and the oversized jumper, he crawls between the sheets and curls up at once.

“Will you stay with me?” he asks quietly.

But Severus has slid into bed before he’s even finished speaking. He presses his body against Harry’s back, wrapping both arms around him.

“I missed you,” Harry mutters, twining their fingers together on his stomach.

“I missed you, too,” Severus replies, breathing into Harry’s neck, sliding his lips along the side of it. “So, so much.”

Harry arches into his touch with a shuddering breath. “Hold me tighter?”

Severus obeys, tightening his arms around Harry until it feels like every inch of their bodies is connected, until he can feel the shift of every breath Harry takes, the drum of every heartbeat.

He would stay here until the end of time if he could, until the rest of the world forgets their existence. Until they waste away and skin falls from their bones and they are left here, wrapped around each other throughout the rest of history, like the Valdaro Lovers. Together for eternity.

The smell of rain is seeping through the open window, cold and fresh and strangely comforting. The breeze catches Harry’s hair, soft and pitch-black like the feathers of an exotic bird. It tickles Severus’ nose and cheek, and he buries his nose into the back of Harry’s head, where it’s warm and soft and it smells like home. He battles the urge to take a mouthful of the black curls, wondering what it would taste like on his tongue.

“ _Long, let me breathe the fragrance of your hair_ ,” he mutters softly in French. “ _Let me plunge my face into it like a thirsty man into the water of a wet spring, and let me wave it like a scented handkerchief to stir memories in the air…_ ”

Harry hums in contentment and Severus feels it reverberate along his spine. “What’s that?”

“The beginning of a poem. By Baudelaire.”

“I love your voice,” Harry whispers. “It’s so soothing. Can you tell me the rest of it?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember what comes after.”

“Oh. Anything else, then. Please?”

Severus skims through his repertoire of poetry – things he’s learned by heart over the years, voluntarily or not, things he loves to remember. A mixture of beautiful and useless things. There must be hundreds of them, but he can’t think of anything on the spot. He can’t think of anything that could possibly make this moment any better.

“ _Moon River… wider than a mile…_ ” he sings softly, barely audible at first, and then more and more confidently as he goes. “ _I’m crossing you in style… some day…_ ”

Harry’s fingers tighten around his where their hands are linked, and his whole body seems to still, as if he’s holding his breath.

“ _Oh, dream maker… you heart breaker…_ ” Severus continues in a low, gentle voice, close into his ear. “ _Wherever you’re going… I’m going your way…_ ”

Harry turns to look at him over his shoulder, eyes wide with disbelief, and Severus smiles softly at him.

“I looked up the words.”

“My mum,” Harry mumbles. “My mum used to sing me that when I was little… How… how do you know?”

“I didn’t know. You asked me to sing it the other day, when you were drunk.”

Harry turns his head away, but not fast enough for Severus to miss the lost, slightly fearful look in them.

“When I was drunk…” he repeats softly. “What else did I tell you?”

Severus kisses him lightly, on this spot under his ear. His spot.

“Sev?” Harry says again, insistent now. “What else did I say?”

“You told me about the cupboard under the stairs.”

Harry’s doesn’t reply, but Severus perceives the sharp intake of breath. They’re so close, pressed so tightly together, that he feels it as strongly as if it were his own.

“And you told me about that time your family left you there for days. And about the nightmares.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay,” Severus tells him, untangling one of his hands to run it through Harry’s hair, grazing the boy’s scalp with his fingernails gently. “I get nightmares, too.”

“You do?”

“Mmm. It was worse when I was a child. My grandmother had to tell me stories before I went to sleep. I’d always have nightmares if she didn’t.”

“What kind of stories?” Harry inquires softly.

“It depends. All sorts. Whatever she could come up with. Sometimes they were fairy tales she remembered, or she would just make something up. I asked her to stop when I got older, of course, but she’d always make sure to tell me something good before I went to bed.”

“Something good?”

“Something about life, about the world. Something I could think about before I fell asleep, to keep the nightmares away.”

“And that worked?”

“Some of the time.”

Harry remains quiet, pressing back against Severus, looking for warmth. Severus tightens his arms around him some more.

“Can you tell me something good?” Harry mumbles. “Just so I don’t have bad dreams.”

Severus kisses his neck tenderly, pressing his lips into the crook of his shoulder, where the jumper is slipping and some of Harry’s scar is showing. He runs his lips over it softly, feeling the texture, all the while raking through his mind swiftly, searching for something, skimming through random facts and useless trivia and random knowledge.

“There’s this desert in Chile,” he begins, whispering into Harry’s bare skin. “It’s the driest place in the world, so dry that some areas of it have never recorded rainfall. Barely any plants or animals can live there. Not even bacteria. But sometimes, about once or twice every decade, it gets hit with heavy rains in the summer. It rains so much and for so long that the water reaches deep into the soil, where all sorts of old seeds are buried. And right there, in the driest place on earth, flowers start to bloom.”

“Really?” Harry whispers.

“Yes. For weeks at a time,” Severus continues. “They’ve counted over two hundred different types of flowers. In a place where nothing ever grows. All the flowers you can imagine, all the colours. Nothing but flowers, as far as the eye can see…”

He trails off, picturing them in his mind. He’s seen the photos – a sea of flowers so white it looks like snowfall, and others, yellow, blue, red…

“Your grandmother told you this?”

“No, not that. I just know because… I like to know things like that,” Severus admits.

“Right. Geography,” Harry mutters fondly.

Severus smiles into Harry’s neck. “How’s your head now?”

“Better. It helps with the lights off.”

“Do you want some aspirin?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll let you get some sleep then,” Severus says, shifting back, moving to leave the bed, but Harry tightens his hold, gripping his wrists.

“Can you just stay until I fall asleep?” he asks softly.

“I don’t want to wake you when I go.”

“Please?”

Severus’ right arm is starting to feel numb from where it’s tucked underneath Harry’s body. He pulls it free slowly, flexing his fingers.

“I won’t be far,” he assures Harry. “I’m just going to take a shower. And then I need to try to get some writing done. I’ll be in the living-room.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles after a while.

“Just sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

He presses one last kiss to Harry’s neck and slips from the bed, tucking the blankets back around the boy’s body. Then he stands there for a little while, next to the bed, watching over him.

_It’s okay now. He’s safe. He’s here with you. Everything will be okay…_

_Oh, really?_ the snide little voice inquires suddenly. _Will it, though? Tell me, will everything be okay when you tell him you’re leaving?_

Severus’ breath catches in his throat.

 _I’m not leaving!_ he tries to defend himself.

_Oh, but you are. You’ve decided to keep the apartment in Paris, haven’t you? Why would you do that if you had no intention to return? You want to go back. You’re thinking about it constantly._

But the little voice is right, of course. It always is.

For weeks, since his return to London, Severus had done everything in his power to avoid the very thought of Paris, of his past and the painful memories he desperately wanted to keep buried. But now that he’s made peace with everything, and now that he’s returned to it, been reminded of the true nature of it, he can’t get Paris out of his head.  
In hindsight, how he could ever consider London to be his home is baffling. He wants so badly to be sleeping in his own bed again, to be skimming through his own books. To have breakfast on the balcony in the morning. To write at his typewriter. To let his fingers trail along the polished wood of the railing as he walks up the stairs. To see the familiar Man Ray photograph hanging on the wall when he comes home.

But how is he supposed to tell Harry this?

How is he supposed to go back and leave Harry here?

_You promised yourself you’d protect him… How can you do that if you’re not here?_

Severus leaves the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. He heads into the bathroom and strips slowly, avoiding his reflection again. The last thing he needs is to witness the guilty look he already knows he’ll find on his face.

As he showers, he tries to reassure himself. Paris isn’t so far away. Barely an hour by plane. He wouldn’t mind travelling back and forth every week or so. He wouldn’t mind paying Harry’s fare either… Harry would love Paris…

He smiles at the thought of it. They would spend long days hanging around museums and cafés, touring all the bookshops they could find, the art galleries. And they would spend long nights fucking in Severus’ bed, with the French doors open, and just hold each other afterwards, drinking wine and talking for hours.

Yes, Paris isn’t so far away. This could be done.

Barely an hour by plane. Two hours by train. Six hours or so by car. He doesn’t know if Harry drives, but Severus would buy a car if it meant he could see Harry more often. He would buy a car and drive to London every weekend if need be…

Or maybe… Would Harry come with him to Paris if he asked? Would Harry give up his life here, his friends? He doesn’t have a job anymore… who knows?

_Don’t think about this possibility, Severus. Don’t get any ideas. Don’t be so selfish._

He dries himself hastily and pulls on a pair of joggers, and then he wanders around the flat, feeling shifty and anxious.

There’s a buzzing sound, continuous and insistent. Severus looks around and finds the source of it in the pocket of Harry’s coat.

Ron’s picture is on the screen of Harry’s phone, smiling drunkenly against a background of unidentifiable, blurry people, and wearing an awful Christmas jumper of a reindeer with a nose that lights up.

“Ron,” he says, picking up the call. “It’s Severus.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end.

“For fuck’s sake,” the redhead announces, annoyed. “Is he with you? He was supposed to be resting and he just bloody took off.”

“He’s with me–”

“He’s with Severus,” Ron repeats, obviously talking to someone else, probably Hermione. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay. We had a long talk, and he was tired. He’s taking a nap now.”

“Okay… good. I can come get him later if he wants.”

“I’ll ask him,” Severus says. “But there’s still a lot we need to talk about.”

“Yeah, I understand. Look… just tell him to give me a call at some point, okay? I just… I worry.”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Severus.”

Severus hangs up, slips the phone back into the pocket. And then, because he doesn’t know what else to do, he sits down at the desk to write.

He doesn’t really plan to get anything done, certain the worries and anxiety will keep him from being inspired, but he writes without truly realising it, scribbling a scene at random, and it turns out well, so he keeps going. When he looks at the time, over two hours have passed, and he’s managed a few thousand words of his novel. Yes, novel. He can call it that now. A story has formed in his head, taking a life of its own.

He heads back to the bedroom, opens the door softly to check on Harry, and finds him in the exact same position he’s fallen asleep in.

Severus approaches, footsteps inaudible on the thick carpet, and he sits on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch Harry’s hair, slipping his fingers through the soft strands.

Harry moans softly as he stirs. “What time is it?” he slurs, turning his head to blink sleepily at Severus.

“A little after seven.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles. “Didn’t mean to sleep so long…”

He rubs at his face tiredly, wincing as he accidentally pokes at the bruised side of his face.

“You probably needed it. How are you feeling?” Severus asks.

“Better. My headache’s gone.”

Severus flicks on the lamp on the side table, filling the room with soft light so he can better see Harry’s face. Harry squints at first, but then he’s smiling softly, reaching out to grab Severus’ hand and lacing their fingers together.

“I dreamt about the desert flowers,” he reveals. “It was just like you said. As far as the eye can see.”

Severus swallows around the lump in his throat. “Good… I’m glad…”

_Tell him. Tell him about Paris._

But he can’t. The words don’t come. They stay jammed tightly in his throat, like a piece of food he’s swallowed askew.

“Did you get some writing done?” Harry asks softly.

“A little.”

“Will you read me one of your new poems?”

Severus clears his throat with difficulty, shaking his head. “I’m not… It’s not poetry. I’m writing a novel.”

Harry’s lips curl into this beautiful, breathtaking smile of his. “Really? What’s it about?”

Severus shrugs, suddenly embarrassed under his gaze.

“It’s complicated… I’m not sure exactly, not yet. It’s about an old man who’s about to die. And he thinks back on the life he’s lived, on the choices he’s made. And he starts… imagining what his life would have been like if he’d made different choices. If he’d followed his heart instead of listening to others. If he’d been brave. And the more he imagines all those possible outcomes, the more he realises he hasn’t lived at all… But he’s old and confused and thinking about it all confuses him even more. And it gets to a point where he doesn’t remember what really happened and what didn’t, what was real and what’s nothing but a fantasy. It’s… complicated.”

“It’s going to be brilliant,” Harry whispers, eyes never leaving his. “I can’t wait to read it.”

He guides Severus’ hand to his face and presses his lips into the palm of it. And then, with a mischievous look in his eyes, he stares at Severus directly and licks into his hand. He slides his tongue all along the side of it, from Severus’ wrist to the tip of his thumb, which, of course, he then sucks into his mouth greedily.

Severus shudders, unable to look away, completely fucking hypnotised. He couldn’t avert his eyes if his life depended on it.

Slowly, as if in a trance, he presses his wet thumb to Harry’s bottom lip, sliding it from left to right, and then down across Harry’s chin and further still along his neck, leaving a thin trail of saliva in its wake.

Harry’s breath trembles, a soft shiver. Severus feels the tremor through the delicate skin of his throat.

“Kiss me?” Harry mumbles, pupils dilating in the lamplight.

Black covering green, like the moon eclipsing the sun.

Severus bends down, cradling Harry’s head in both his hands, and kisses him gently. It’s quite chaste, nothing but a press of lips, but it’s enough. God, it’s enough for Severus’ heart to clench with desire, for a shiver to shoot up his spine. For his cock to stir, unrestrained by the loose joggers.

Just a press of Harry’s soft lips against his. Just lips, no tongue. That’s all it takes.

“More,” Harry pleads softly as soon as Severus starts pulling away.

Harry’s hands grip his wrists, keeping him close. Severus is not even an inch away, still staring raptly into his face, and he barely needs to move at all to kiss him again. This time, Harry’s lips open under his, and his tongue slips into Severus’ mouth hungrily.

“More,” Harry moans into his mouth among a flutter of delicious gasps, gripping Severus by the shoulders, pulling him even closer.

Next thing he knows, Severus is crawling into bed with him, pushing the sheets away so they can hold each other unhindered, the wool of Harry’s jumper incredibly soft against his bare chest.

“More,” Harry says again, gasping and pulling Severus closer.

Severus kisses him again, moaning into his mouth. He slips his hands under Harry’s jumper, touching his warm, soft skin, feeling muscles jump under his fingers.

Harry leans into the caress, moaning beautifully.

This. This is what everything has been leading up to. This one moment.

Severus would suffer through it all again, just for this moment.

His lips stray from Harry’s to slide gently along his jaw. “More?” he asks, breathing heavily, long and deep, in a desperate attempt to try and stop his heart from bursting out of his chest.

“Yessss….” Harry hisses, aching his hips, and desire shoots along Severus’ spine like a strike of lightning.

Harry grabs at him again, pulling and pulling until Severus is completely on top of him.

Severus hesitates. _I don’t like to be held down_ , Harry’s said earlier.

But Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He’s arching into him again, urging their clothed cocks to touch, grabbing at his shoulders to keep him close, mouth seeking his again and again.

They kiss desperately, making up for all the kisses they could have shared these last few days instead of suffering and making the other suffer. They kiss and kiss until they’re both panting and breathless and desperate for more.

Kissing Harry like this again is like coming home from the war. Like silence after years of nothing but gunshots and explosions. Like safely crawling into bed after hiding in a hole in the ground for so long. Like getting a shot of morphine after having a limb blown off.

But should he be doing this? Should be he kissing Harry like this, wanting Harry like this, after everything they’ve talked about earlier? Isn’t this going too fast?

He tries to ask. He wants to look deep into Harry’s eyes and make sure that this is okay, that this isn’t too fast. But Harry won’t let him, won’t let go of his lips, won’t let him get a word out. When Severus starts pulling away, Harry sits up to follow, mouth chasing his, fingers locking around the back of his head.

“Wait… wait…” Severus gasps as Harry tries to pull him closer still, tongue licking at his lips and chin.

“Don’t think about it,” Harry pants against his mouth.

Severus tries. He kisses Harry again, breathlessly, only separating long enough to pull Harry’s jumper over his head hastily and throw it somewhere across the room. And he latches his mouth onto Harry’s neck, sucking and biting…

“Fuuuuuck…” Harry moans loudly.

This isn’t right. This is too fast… way too fast… He shouldn’t be doing this with Harry. Not tonight… Not after everything…

Severus stops, pressing his forehead against Harry’s chest, breathing shakily. He shuts his eyes, caressing the soft skin of Harry’s back with both hands, tracing the scars like following rivers on a map. Slowly, Harry’s fingers come to rest on the nape of his neck, stroking soothingly.

They stay like this for a moment, in silence. And then he lets Harry guide his head up so that they can look into each other’s eyes.

“Please don’t think about it,” Harry mutters, eyes kind and honest and beautiful. “I’m just thinking about you. No one else. There’s no one else in my head. Please, don’t let it change anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Severus says softly, sliding his hands up Harry’s back until they’re cradling his head, bringing his face closer still, so close his features become blurry lines in the lamplight. “I… I don’t want to hurt you. I could never forgive myself if–”

“I trust you,” Harry tells him, his breath hot against Severus’ lips. “I meant what I said earlier. I feel safe with you.”

“Anything,” Severus begs. “If there’s anything I do… that you don’t want… that you don’t like. You’ll tell me. One word and I’ll stop.”

“I promise. I swear it,” Harry says softly. “I want you so much…” he adds, voice tight and lips shaking.

Severus bites back a moan as Harry presses their hips together once more. And when Harry kisses him again, he gives in, lets go of his fears, and he kisses Harry back, hard and deep, resuming his rediscovery of that lovely mouth.

Harry shifts until he’s lying flat on his back again, pulling Severus closer, giving him full access to his gorgeous, perfect body. And Severus assaults his neck again, sucking and biting.

God, those moans… Those beautiful moans he thought he’d never get to hear again…

He licks at Harry’s throat, tracing collarbones with his tongue, and then circling nipples as Harry grasps at his hair, moaning loudly. He kisses Harry’s ribs and along his stomach, around his navel and across his hipbones. Through it all Harry arches into him, swearing under his breath, whimpers of _fuck_ and _yes_ and _more_ and _Severusssss_ …

He could live in a world without music if it meant he could hear this every day.

“Fuck!” Harry pants out when Severus reaches his cock, sucking the tip of it through his boxers. “Oh, fuck! Please!” he begs, raising his hips. “Off… just take them off…”

Severus obeys, pulling down the garment with difficulty because he can’t bring himself to move much, and neither does Harry. They only manage to get one leg out and the boxers end up tangled somewhere around Harry’s right knee, but it’s good enough.

Severus wants to weep at the way Harry’s beautiful thighs fall open for him.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles, because he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t decide. He wants to do everything at once…

He’s losing his mind. The great Severus Prince has lost all reason.

He’s become some sort of mindless creature that can do nothing but want, want, want…

“Your mouth… Please…” Harry moans.

Severus kisses along Harry’s thigh, lifting his knee and bringing it to his mouth. He lets his lips slide along Harry’s calf until he reaches the arch of his foot and kisses there, too. Harry’s whole body shivers when Severus reaches his toes and sucks at them hungrily, one after the other.

“Fuuuuck…” Harry cries out in bliss, half laughing at how much he likes this.

Severus smirks, gently setting his leg down on the bed again, and bending forward to finally take Harry’s cock into his mouth.

“Lower…” Harry mumbles after a while, shyly. “Please… can you…”

He’s hiding his eyes with both arms, biting at his lip painfully. It’s obvious he’s embarrassed about the request, but a wave of warmth spreads through Severus’ chest when he realises that Harry feels comfortable enough with him to ask for what he wants.

He lifts Harry’s hips higher and sucks on his balls for a while before giving a firm lick at the small furl of muscles underneath, prodding at it with his tongue.

“Shiiiit…” Harry hisses, pushing back, his fingers finding their way into Severus’ hair.

Severus licks and sucks, hands holding Harry’s thighs as the boy writhes in pleasure. Once or twice he pauses to glance up at Harry’s face – eyes shut, mouth open in a soundless gasp. He’s divinely beautiful like this. He reminds Severus of that Bernini statue of a saint in ecstasy. He can’t remember which one. He can’t remember the names of the saints. He can’t remember anything outside this bed.

There’s no need for saints or God when there’s this. When there’s Harry’s moans and Harry’s thighs tightening around his head.

He shifts to take Harry’s cock in his mouth.

“Oh fuck!” Harry cries out, both hands buried in Severus’ hair, gripping it.

 _You can hurt me if you want_ , Severus wants to tell him. _You can rip out my hair by the handful, thrust into my mouth until I choke, I would let you. You’ve been hurt so much it would only be fair for you to want to hurt someone back. I would suffer for you. Gladly_.

But Harry doesn’t do any of this, he only pulls at Severus’ hair gently, fingers twining in the strands. And he lets out a keen at a particularly hard suck, his body curling forward in pleasure, foot jerking on the sheets.

Severus keeps sucking hard and long, prodding at that spot under the head of Harry’s cock with his tongue, again and again. And the moans – the long, wanton, embarrassingly loud moans that escape Harry’s throat – shake him to his very core. Severus is painfully hard, so hard he feels sweat slide down his spine with the effort to hold back.

“Close…” Harry slurs, body taunt, holding Severus’ head in his hands as he thrusts gently. He comes seconds later, gasping as Severus swallows him down.

Severus kisses his stomach afterwards, and then the inside of his thighs as Harry smiles down at him lazily. He removes Harry’s boxers, which are dangling off his foot, and then takes off his own joggers, the front of which is a sticky mess. He’s managed not to come too, but it was a close thing.

He crawls up Harry’ body, nuzzling into his neck. Harry’s hands dive for his cock, but Severus pushes them away gently.

“Not yet. I’m not nineteen anymore,” he whispers.

Harry grins softly but doesn’t touch him again. He wraps his arms around Severus’ shoulders, holding him tightly.

“Am I too heavy?” Severus asks.

“No, it’s fine,” Harry mumbles.

Severus shifts to look up at him. His eyes are shut and he’s just lying there, with Severus’ head pressed to his chest. He looks so peaceful in this moment.

“Are you falling asleep again?”

A grin curls at Harry’s lips. “I might be.”

Severus chuckles, resting his head on Harry’s chest again, careful to put half of his weight on the bed. His legs tangle with Harry’s naturally, and he shuts his eyes, too, listening as Harry’s heartbeat slows to a steady, gentle rhythm. Harry’s fingers move up his back, tracing lazy patters, before finding their way to his hair again, grazing his scalp softly. Severus feels them move along the side of his neck, near his hairline, prodding at one spot gently, and he stiffens.

“How’d you get this scar?” Harry asks quietly. “It’s so deep.”

“My father,” Severus confesses. “He threw something at me. Or he threw me at something. I can’t remember.”

Harry lets out a sharp breath. Severus can hear it travel all the way from his lungs to his windpipe. He looks up, meeting those big eyes, those eyes that see right through his soul.

“You can’t remember,” Harry echoes.

Severus only shakes his head, throat tightening.

It’s not often that he speaks to anyone about his father. His family knows, or at least most of them suspect what his childhood was like before he came to London. But Constance is probably the only person who knows the details of the story.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mutters, resting one hand on the side of Severus’ face, caressing his ear gently.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. In another lifetime.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. He just stares into space for a time, holding him. Severus has a clear idea what he must be thinking about.

“Hermione told me that your uncle…” he starts softly, but he trails off, not wanting to breach another sensitive subject after their earlier conversation.

“It was never as bad as she seems to think,” Harry mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “He would just bully me. He slapped me once or twice, but that was it. He was always too concerned what the neighbours would think if they saw the bruises, I suppose…”

Severus rolls onto his side, lying next to Harry so he can see his face.

“Mostly he would just yell at me,” Harry continues. “He’d call me names, say I was useless. I kept making messes, breaking things… But he just made me so nervous all the time.”

“I know the feeling.”

“He would punish me, lock me in the cupboard without food. He liked to blame me for a variety of things I had nothing to do with.”

“Like what?”

“Bad days at work, bad cups of tea, bad weather. That sort of thing.”

“That’s a lot of work for a little boy,” Severus remarks.

Harry scoffs. “Yeah. For a long time, I thought I was some sort of wizard.”

He grins, turning to Severus as if they might share a laugh over it, but Severus doesn’t laugh.

“He never hurt you?”

Harry shrugs, looking away. “No. Well, it only happened once. Just once,” he insists.

“Once is enough,” Severus says firmly. “What happened?”

Harry shrugs again, wiping at his eyes.

“I’ve never told anyone this,” he mutters. “Not even my therapist.”

He pauses for some time before taking a deep breath.

“I came home early from school that one time. My cousin was off somewhere with his friends and my violin lesson got cancelled, I don’t remember why. When I got home, I saw my aunt with another man.”

He stops again, staring into space as if he’s now looking at that scene again. There’s a look of frightened innocence on his face that tears at Severus’ heart.

“She didn’t do anything,” Harry continues. “She just looked at me coldly and told me to go to my room… It all made sense to me then, why she’d agreed to getting me violin lessons. She never cared about my talent or about anything I might want. She didn’t care about me at all, she just wanted me out of the house, so she could cheat on my uncle. I thought she would come and yell at me as soon as the man was gone, but she didn’t. She never said anything to me about it. But when my uncle came home from work that night, she told him she’d caught me stealing money from her purse…”

Harry trails off. A tear slides down his cheek and he wipes it furiously.

“He came barging in,” he says shakily. “I’d never seen him so angry before. Fuck, I was terrified… He grabbed me by the neck. Threw me against the wall. Then he took off his belt and he beat me with it.”

He falls silent, breathing deeply to keep the tears away. Severus wraps him in his arms, holding him tightly.

“How old were you?” he asks, throat dry and aching.

“Eight or nine,” Harry mumbles into his neck. “It was before Hoggarts.”

They just hold each other in silence for a while.

“She didn’t have to do that, to make up lies,” Harry says quietly. “I would have never said anything to anyone. I was scared to speak in that house. I was scared to ask questions, to breathe… How could I possibly tell my uncle any of this? It’s not like he’d have believed me anyway. She didn’t have to do that, but she had power over me, and she liked to use it.”

“There are terrible people in the world,” Severus says gently, caressing Harry’s back. “And some of us are just… unlucky enough to have them as parents… or as guardians.”

“Your dad… what was he like?” Harry asks, tentatively.

“He wasted most of his energy on my mother. He’d only turn to me when I tried to defend her. She always begged me not to intervene, but sometimes… sometimes I couldn’t.”

“I was wondering…” Harry hesitates. “I was just…”

“It’s okay,” Severus says softly, pushing a black curl away from Harry’s forehead. “You can ask anything.”

“Your mum, how did she die?”

“She took too many pills,” Severus explains. “Either it was an accident, or it wasn’t. I’ll never know.”

Harry presses a warm hand to Severus’ chest, right over his heart. “How would you feel if it wasn’t?” he whispers.

Despite himself, Severus feels his lips curl into a sad, painful smile.

“I think I would understand,” he admits. “Maybe not back then… I thought she’d abandoned me. But I would now.”

They lie there for some time in silence, just holding each other. There’s a warm sort of comfort to it, being aware that they have known the same kind of sorrows. Harry presses a kiss to Severus’ neck, and then another, and another, his hands trailing down Severus’ chest slowly.

“Maybe we should talk about something else now,” Harry mumbles, his warm breath sending shivers across Severus’ skin. “Or do something else…”

Severus swallows thickly as Harry’s fingers find his cock, which quickly starts to harden again. “Yes,” he moans. “Weren’t we in the middle of something?”

Harry grins at him, body arching into his.

Oh, to be young again. To be nineteen and ready to go any time.

If they were both nineteen, they would never need to leave this bed again.

“Can I kiss you?” Severus asks, mouth already pressed near Harry’s lips.

“You don’t have to ask–”

“I know. I just like to hear you say it.”

“Kiss me, then. Please?”

“Here?” Severus asks, pressing a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. “Or here?” He turns Harry’s face to press another kiss, open-mouthed, on Harry’s neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes the boy whimper.

“Wherever you want…” Harry hisses in pleasure before moaning loudly as Severus sucks at his skin.

“I love that,” Severus says huskily. “I love hearing you moan… goes straight to my cock.”

“Yeah?” Harry gasps. “What else do you like?”

“I like watching you smoke,” Severus reveals, close to his ear. “You’re so bloody sexy. That first night, just watching you… I was almost hard just watching you…”

“I did it on purpose. I was hoping you’d come on to me.”

Severus pulls back, stunned, looking into Harry’s face.

“Really?”

Harry grins in embarrassment. “I let it slip that I was gay,” he recalls. “I made something up about an exchange student. That was bullshit. I just wanted to let you know. I’ve been told it’s not obvious.”

“It’s not,” Severus admits. “My heart almost stopped when you said it. But then I thought… there was no way you’d want me–”

Harry stares at him incredulously. “How could I not?”

“I just… I… What?” Severus stutters.

“ _I just… I… What?_ ” Harry mimics, smiling broadly. “You’re an idiot, Sev,” he says fondly, giving Severus’ cock a long stroke. “You have condoms this time?”

“Yes,” Severus gasps. “Yes…”

He doesn’t get to say anything more because Harry is pulling him on top of his body again, kissing him again, making him forget all about terrible people who are terrible parents and dark houses and cupboards and lonely childhoods.

None of that exists anymore. Nothing exists except Harry’s body arching into his, except their cocks touching, their lips kissing and tongues licking…

“You want to be on top?” Severus asks, looking into Harry’s face searchingly.

Harry hisses at the coldness of the lube. “It’s okay,” he mumbles.

“You sure? I can lie down if you want, and you can ride me–”

“Sev, I trust you. It’s okay like this,” Harry assures him softly.

Severus only nods, running a shaking palm along Harry’s left thigh softly, bringing it to rest against his hip. And he watches raptly as Harry’s mouth falls open the moment he slides in, head falling back against the pillow. He’s so fucking beautiful…

“Good?” Severus gasps out.

“Fuuuuck…” Harry whimpers. “Yessss…”

Severus bends to kiss him as he slides in deeper, and Harry chokes out a cry that turns into a low, drawn-out moan against Severus’ lips.

“Hold me?” he begs.

Severus slips his arms under him, cradling his shoulders as he starts thrusting. Harry’s cock is hard and hot against his stomach, and he moans with every stroke, wrapping both legs around Severus’ waist tightly, pushing back.

“Oh, God…” Severus rasps out.

Every thrust takes his breath away, like that moment on a rollercoaster, right before the descent, when you’re floating in the air, and your heart jumps in your chest, suspended between two breaths. Severus feels weightless, ready to just drift away. The only thing keeping him grounded is Harry, holding onto him tightly, the pads of his fingers gripping so hard into his back that it’s almost painful. But Severus would never dare pull away.

Then Harry’s hands travel up the back of his neck in one swift, jerky motion, stroking through Severus’ hair upwards and grasping at the roots shakily, pulling. It doesn’t hurt, not quite, but it sends a spark of desire, raw and read hot, all the way through Severus’ body. A helpless moan slips from his lips.

“Oh, fuck yes!” Harry cries out at a particularly deep thrust, and the keen that follows drips down Severus’ spine like lava.

It’s so hot if it wasn’t for the breeze from the open window Severus is sure he would consume. Spontaneous combustion. The thought is a strangely alluring one. To burn, to die holding Harry, to burst into flames together, to become fused, to become the same pile of ashes.

He keeps thrusting, long and slow and deep, so fucking deep, pleasure building up, scorching hot and boiling. And he cradles Harry’s body through it all. He wants to shield Harry from the world, make him forget about every other body that’s ever hurt him, that’s ever caused him pain. He wants Harry’s whole world to be filled only with this.

“Okay?” Severus manages, through his dry, parched throat.

Even now, even like this, surrounded by Harry’s uninhibited moans, with Harry’s thighs gripping his hips, he’s afraid. Even now he’s terrified. And he knows he’ll probably always be scared, but it’s a risk he has to take. It’s a risk worth taking if he gets to have this.

“Don’t stop–” Harry rasps out urgently, the words fading into a loud, wanton moan.

Severus kisses his opened mouth gently. Then he pulls back, lifting Harry’s leg under the knee for a better angle.

“Fuuuuuck!” Harry whines, pushing back harshly.

“Like that?”

“Yesss…. Oh, fuck yes! Oh… please…. Sev!”

Severus thrust in sharp and fast now, the walls of Harry’s body soft and tight and scorching and home.

 _Home_.

Harry cries out, his whole body shaking, and Severus thrusts one last time, hard and deep, holding him tight as they both come.

Harry lies limp and motionless afterwards, head thrown back on the pillow, eyes shut, mouth still open. Severus brushes the hair from his face with a shaky hand.

“You okay?” he chokes out through his parched throat.

All he gets in response is a faint moan and a twitch of one of Harry’s legs, lying limp on the mattress.

“Harry?”

“’m okay…” Harry rasps out, still not moving. “Thirsty.”

Severus unwraps his body from Harry’s carefully and stands on shaky legs before hurrying into the bathroom. He takes off the condom and throws it in the bin. Then he cleans himself up quickly and rushes back to the bedroom with a towel and a glass of water for Harry.

Harry hasn’t moved, but his eyes are open now, and he’s staring at the ceiling tiredly. Severus cleans him up and forces him to sit and drink some of the water. Then he drains the rest of the glass himself.

They lie back down. Harry curls up against his side without a word.

“Did I hurt you?” Severus asks quietly, running his fingers softly along the boy’s ribs.

“It’s not that,” Harry mumbles.

“What is it then? Tell me.”

Harry hides his face in the crook of his neck. “Is that… what it’s supposed to be like?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know…” Harry says softly, sounding embarrassed. “Being with someone… is it always… is it meant to… be like this?”

Severus tightens his arms around him and presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s never been like this before. Not for me.”

“Not for me either,” Harry mumbles. “Maybe I’ve been doing it wrong–”

“Hey,” Severus whispers soothingly, caressing Harry’s back. “You haven’t.”

 _It’s everyone else_ , he wants to say. _It’s everyone else you’ve ever been with. They were the ones in the wrong. They were the ones who didn’t take care of you, who didn’t show you…_

“I think I blacked out.”

“You did. Just for a bit. Don’t worry, it happens sometimes.”

“My toes are numb,” Harry adds.

Severus feels Harry’s foot graze his calf as he stretches his toes, and he chuckles at the touch. Harry’s feet are icy cold now, from the open window.

Severus pulls the sheet on top of them.

“I was really loud…” Harry says softly after a moment, voice tight with something like shame as he hides his face deeper into Severus’ neck. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry if I–”

Severus cups Harry’s head, tilting it up.

 _None of that!_ he thinks, heart trembling with fury. _None of that with me!_

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says, looking into Harry’s eyes. “Ever. If you want to be loud, you be loud. I don’t want you to hide from me.”

Harry nods, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. “Can you hold me?”

They snuggle closer, arms wrapping around shoulders and waists, hands grazing skin along the way.

“You said it’s never… been like this before, for you?” Harry says after a long silence.

“No, never. Not like this.”

Harry is quiet for a time before speaking again, tentatively. “Not even with Colin?”

“No,” Severus says softly. “You can ask me about him, if you want. I don’t mind telling you.”

“How did you meet?”

“We met in a bookstore near the university… I still remember the autumn light, the sounds of the city. I remember the shirt he was wearing, and the way our eyes met. I remember it all so clearly.”

“Was he a student, too?”

Severus scoff. “No, not a student. He didn’t believe in the educational system. He was a painter. Self-taught.”

“How long were you together?”

“Fifteen years.”

“You must think about him often,” Harry says softly.

“Often, but a little at a time, like poor old Swann,” Severus replies, quoting Proust.

Harry smiles up at him. “How was he?”

Severus could spend hours describing Colin. He could talk about his eyes, alert and attentive. About his smiles, how rare and sudden they were. About touches and smells, looks and kisses. About the countless days and nights spent together. But he doesn’t know where to start.

Fifteen years of words and he can’t find them.

“He was arrogant, pretentious, and rude.”

Harry raises an eyebrow in shock.

“It wasn’t his fault. He was French. It’s in their nature,” Severus adds in a lighter tone.

Harry laughs softly, and they lapse into silence again.

Severus closes his eyes, letting his mind drift away from Colin and back to the boy he’s holding in his arms.

“I used to dream I was drowning,” he mumbles after a while. “Slowly. Sometimes it felt like it took hours, until I just grew tired and let myself sink. The day before I met you, I dreamt that someone saved me.”

“You think that was me?” Harry asks curiously, with a hint of skepticism.

Severus shakes his head. “How could it be? I didn’t know you yet. But maybe it was a sign.”

Harry seems to think this over for a minute. “I don’t think I know how to save anyone.”

“Maybe you don’t need to know how. Maybe you just do,” Severus ventures.

Harry is silent for a such a long time that Severus almost regrets talking about this at all.

“I often dream that I wake up and the house is empty,” Harry says suddenly. “And I go out on the street and there’s no one there either. And somehow, I know that there’s no one else left, in the whole world. That I’m the last one. And I panic. And when I wake up for real, I can’t breathe. I think I scream, because Ron always comes…”

Severus rakes a hand through Harry’s hair tenderly. “I get panic attacks, too.”

“I figured. Because you knew what to do the other night.”

“I didn’t know if you remembered that.”

“I remember… I never thanked you–”

“There’s no need to thank me.”

Severus doesn’t say anything more, not wanting to press the issue, to mention anything else about that terrible, terrible night.

“They give me a hard time,” Harry says softly. “That breathing thing, it doesn’t work very well for me.”

“It’s not just that. You have to think happy thoughts, to trick your mind into thinking you’re safe.”

“What do you think about, when it happens to you?”

“My grandmother inherited a manor in Cornwall,” Severus says, tracing soft patterns on the skin of Harry’s back and shoulders. “We used to go a few times a year when I was a child. She took me there shortly after my mother died. It’s the first time I ever remember being happy. I haven’t been there in years, but it’s my favourite place in the world. It’s my safe place.”

“Tell me about it?” Harry asks, leaning into the caress.

“It’s on a cliff in the hills. There are trees all around, pines mostly. They look sort of stunted, because of the wind from the sea. And there’s stairs carved into the rock face, very abrupt, but you can go straight to the beach from the backyard.”

Severus shuts his eyes, imagining it all so vividly.

“It’s always windy. All the time. At night, even with the windows close, you can hear the tide. And in the morning, the cries of the seagulls wake you up…”

He trails off, eyes still shut. Sometimes he can imagine it all so well it’s like he can smell the sea on the air.

“I don’t have a safe place,” Harry mumbles, his breath tickling Severus’ skin.

Severus holds him tighter, one hand on his warm back, the other carding through his hair gently.

“I’ll be your safe place, if you’ll let me,” he says.

Harry is silent for a time, then he shifts to press a kiss to Severus’ throat.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he whispers.

 

* * *

 

Severus lies awake long after he’s turned off the lamp. Long after Harry falls asleep, breathing softly, steadily, using the crook between his arm and shoulder as a pillow instead of one of the actual pillows.

Hours pass, and Severus lies awake, looking at Harry’s form in the darkness.

_I’ll be your safe place…_

_Why the fuck would you say that? How can you be his safe place if you’re leaving?_

He’ll find a way. He has to find a way, because nothing’s ever felt righter than this, here and now. Nothing’s every felt righter than lying in bed with Harry by his side, than thinking about waking up next to Harry for the rest of his life. Nothing’s ever felt this good.

And so, he lies awake until dawn, all sorts of thoughts swirling through his mind. Going over possibilities. Phrasing and rephrasing all the different ways he could say this, announce this. All the different ways he could ask Harry, try to convince him.

He’ll find a way. Because all he can think about as morning comes is that bit from Leonard Cohen’s poem about the body of loneliness…

“Are you a vampire?”

Severus startles. Harry’s looking up at him groggily, with a slight grin on his face.

“What?”

Harry’s grin widens. “It’s like you hardly ever sleep,” he adds, staring closely at Severus’ lips.

 _I’ve slept enough,_ Severus wants to tell him. _I’ve been asleep all my life. Now I’m awake_.

“I sleep, sometimes,” he says instead. “I just like looking at you.”

Harry’s grin turns mischievous, and he shifts his face closer to nip at Severus’ bottom lip.

“No need to stay awake,” he mutters. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Severus sucks in a breath, his heart swelling, and he kisses Harry deeply. Afterwards, he stares into the boy’s face in something like awe. How did he get so lucky?

He’ll find a way. There’s no way he’ll give this up.

“Why the look of surprise?” Harry teases, raising a sleepy eyebrow. “You brought this on yourself, you know. You shouldn’t fuck me so good if you don’t want me to stick around,” he finishes in a whisper.

Severus grabs his face to kiss him again, accidentally touching the bruise on his cheek. Harry hisses in pain.

“I’m sorry,” Severus stammers urgently. “I’m sorry, I forgot–”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, prodding at it tentatively. “It’s mostly sort of numb. Does it look terrible?”

“Nothing about you could ever look terrible. Come closer. It’s freezing in here.”

Severus grabs the duvet from the floor and hauls it over the bed. He scoots Harry’s body half on top of his and pulls the covers over them. The window’s still open, but he doesn’t want to leave the bed to shut it.

He never wants to leave this bed.

“What time is it?” Harry mumbles tiredly.

“Just past six.”

“Can I stay?”

“Please do.”

Harry snuggles closer, burying his face in Severus’ neck.

“Can we stay in bed all day?”

“That sounds perfect.”

“I like your new sheets, by the way,” Harry remarks, pulling them closer.

Severus smiles. “I got them for you. Thought you’d look good in them.”

Harry grins against his skin. “I wish we could stay here forever,” he mumbles.

Severus’ heart gives a nauseating lurch.

“Harry…” he says quietly. “I’ve… been meaning to tell you. But I didn’t know how… I’m… I’m moving back to Paris.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for such a long time Severus starts believing maybe he’s fallen asleep and hasn’t heard. But then he’s propped up on his elbow, looking into Severus’ face.

“What?”

Severus shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of his stare.

“I’m going back home,” he repeats faintly. “Paris is my home. I thought I wanted to stay in London, but… I just realised that… no matter what happened there, no matter the memories, it’s my home. And I want to go back.”

Harry’s bottom lip is shaking, and Severus watches with dread as his eyes fill with tears. He grabs Harry’s arm before he can pull away, before he can run away.

“Come with me,” he blurts out.

“What, for the weekend?” Harry snaps angrily, but the way his voice breaks betrays how devastated he is at the news.

Severus shakes his head. “Not for the weekend. Come live with me.”

Harry looks searchingly into his eyes, lips shaking. He looks on the verge of tears still, but something has changed. There’s this look on his face, like… hope?

“Are you serious?” he mumbles.

“I want to go home,” Severus says tightly, “but I can’t stand the thought of leaving you here. You said you wanted to travel, come with me.”

Harry shakes his head, incredulous now. “What would I do in Paris?”

“Find a job? Go to university?” Severus suggests.

Harry frowns. “In French?”

“You can learn French.”

Harry scoffs now, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not well enough to find a job or go to university,” he says realistically.

Severus tries to reassure him. “You’re brilliant, you’ll pick it up in no time. It’s not that different from Italian. Or you could play violin? That’s what makes you happy, isn’t it? There’s the Conservatoire, or you could even audition for the–”

“I haven’t played in so long, Sev. I’m rusty,” Harry interrupts.

“You’re not rusty. You’re brilliant. You’re young, passionate, gorgeous, and you have an incredible gift. You could do anything. I’m not just saying that because–”

“Because we’re fucking?” Harry says sharply.

“Because I love you.”

“You love me?” Harry repeats slowly.

“Yes, I love you,” Severus says again.

“You barely know me,” Harry remarks in a small voice.

Severus swallows dryly. Now that he’s said it, there’s no going back. Might as well just say it all.

“I know enough. I know it’s early on, but I’m not afraid to say it. At my age, Harry, when you’ve lived long enough, when you’ve loved and lost and made mistakes and had to live with the consequences… you just know these things when they come. They’re so, so rare. So yes, what I feel for you, I see it for what it is. I love you–”

He sits up swiftly, reaching out because tears are streaming down Harry’s face and he’s trying to turn away to hide them.

“Harry, don’t cry, please. I don’t expect you to–”

“No one’s ever… no one…” Harry chokes out, letting himself be held. “Not like this… I don’t know what–”

“Shhh… You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to tell you.”

“When did you know?” Harry asks, face muffled in his shoulder.

“The first time I saw you, at Lupin’s. When your eyes met mine, it was like I’d just been punched in the chest. Like my heart was beating for the first time.”

Severus takes a deep, shaky breath. It feels so fucking good saying it at last.

“I mean it, Harry,” he adds, “when I say you don’t have to say anything–”

“I love you, too,” Harry chokes out, crying openly now. “Fuck… I love you, too.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to speak through the sobs. Severus holds him tighter, feeling like his heart might burst out of his chest, feeling his eyes tear up as well.

“It’s like… all my life I’ve felt like… I was just waiting for something to happen,” Harry gasps. “And whenever anything did… anyone… I felt I had to just… grab on… That if I didn’t, I would lose it… and maybe it was the one thing… the one thing I’d been waiting for… and if I didn’t hold on, then it would… be gone forever… and I’d always be alone…”

“Shhh… just breathe. It’s okay, love,” Severus soothes him. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

He holds Harry until the sobs stop and the boy can finally speak steadily.

“When I met you, it was so strange,” Harry says softly.

“For me, too. I felt like I knew you already.”

Harry wipes at his eyes, nodding. “I felt the same.”

“Really? I… I couldn’t tell.”

“It threw me off completely,” Harry explains. “I had to leave the room, pretended I was going out for a smoke.”

 _If you’ll excuse me, I’ll step out for a bit_ , he’d said that night, after the three of them had lapsed into silence.

He had seemed so confident, so nonchalant that night. Never would have Severus believed Harry was as troubled by their meeting as he himself had been.

“And later, when we parted,” Harry continues, “I was going to say something, and I felt you wanted me to, but I didn’t, because I thought…” He shrugs. “I don’t know what I thought. I guess I figured, why bother? I guess I felt… There was that whole mess with Draco, and I felt that every time I met someone I liked, it ended up the same. So, that’s why I didn’t say anything. And I regretted it afterwards, but it was done, and I had to live with it…”

He trails off, looking straight into Severus’ eyes, fighting tears again.

“But then I saw you again on the tube. And the way you looked at me…” He shakes his head helplessly, lips shaking. “No one had ever looked at me like that before. Ever. And I thought… I thought maybe what I’d been waiting for was you… And then you kissed me…”

Severus groans, hiding his face in his hands. “Oh God… don’t talk about that.”

Harry snorts softly, laughing through his tears. “You should have seen your face… I thought you’d pass out from embarrassment.”

He reaches out, pries Severus’ hands away. “When you kissed me,” he whispers, “it felt so familiar. Like I was… arriving somewhere I’d left long ago. Somewhere I didn’t remember until I saw it again.”

Severus looks into Harry’s eyes, throat too tight to speak.

“So yeah, I love you,” Harry says softly. “At least I think I do. If it’s not love, it’s the closest I’ve ever been to it. But, what do I know? Maybe it’s just the way you make me feel… You make me feel important. I’ve never felt important before. But the way you look at me… it scares the crap out of me, Sev.”

“Why? What are you scared of?”

“I always fuck things up, always,” Harry mumbles. “And you’ve been hurt so much and I’m so heavy. I’m scared I’ll fuck you up even more–”

“You wouldn’t do that, I know it–”

“You don’t know,” Harry insists. “You say you love me… Well, people get stupid when they’re in love. When we’re in love, we don’t see all the ugliness. It’s like that painting, the lovers with sheets over their heads… I don’t remember who made it.”

“Magritte.”

“I’m afraid that… what you’re feeling for me, it’s blinding you, and you don’t see me as I really am.”

“No. No,” Severus tells Harry softly, looking deep into his eyes. “I see you. I really do. And there’s nothing you could do or say to change the way I feel. I know it.”

By the time sunlight fills the bedroom, they’re lying down under the covers, their bodies pressed together, mouths brushing every now and then, just content to look at each other.

“Shame you shaved your beard,” Harry mumbles, sliding his nose along Severus’ cheek. “I’ve never kissed anyone with a beard before. I’ve always wondered how that feels.”

“It’s not very nice, actually.”

Harry pouts. “Will you grow it again?”

“Not a chance. You should give it a try.”

“Pffft! Couldn’t even if I tried. I only have to shave like once a month, you know.”

“You’re still young, I’m sure it’ll–”

“I doubt it. Remus says my dad was the same,” Harry insists. “Probably won’t happen.”

Severus smiles. “Just as well,” he remarks, caressing Harry’s smooth jaw. “You should never hide your face. You have such flawless skin. When I was your age, my face was the stuff of nightmares.”

Harry guffaws. “I don’t believe that.”

“I swear. I’ll find some pictures.”

“Oh, please do! I want to see what young Severus looked like,” Harry muses.

Severus chuckles. “Believe me, you don’t.”

He lets his fingers run along the side of Harry’s face, watching the way sunlight caresses his cheekbones. Even with the dark bruise, he looks mesmerising.

“You’re bloody perfection,” Severus whispers.

Harry avoids his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. “No, I’m not,” he mumbles.

When he shifts away to lie on his back, Severus understands, and he frowns, pulling Harry closer until he’s lying on his stomach instead. And he pushes the covers away to look at Harry’s back closely, letting his fingers trail along the boy’s scarred skin.

“You’re beautiful, even here,” he insists. “I mean it. That long scar, right here,” Severus whispers, caressing along Harry’s spine, “it looks like the Andes, all the way along South America. And that bit here,” he says, touching the part where the burn curls over Harry’s ribs, “it’s like the Nile viewed from space. Exactly like it.”

He falls silent, admiring all of it. Like a precious map he’s discovered. He stares at it until Harry turns onto his side again to look at him.

“Where have you been?” Harry mutters, staring deep into his eyes.

 _Where have you been all this time?_ he means. _Where have you been when I was lonely, when I was scared, when I needed someone like you?_

“I’m here now,” Severus says.

He wants to cry but he smiles instead. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

He can’t stop looking at Harry. At the contrast between the darkness of his hair and his pale skin. At how light his eyes look between his lashes. He could look at them for a hundred years and never tire of it.

No painter could ever hope to achieve such eyes. How the shades of green mingle and blend in the irises, and the brilliant glossiness of them. How the white is so white, and the beautiful pink of the corners. How perfectly curved and flawless they are, looking at the world widely, like the eyes of a newborn child…

 _…and yet there are endless mysteries under the clarity, behind those endless, fairy-tale eyes,_ Anaïs Nin wrote.

Harry smiles, avoiding his eyes, briefly uncomfortable under Severus’ intense gaze, but next second, he’s staring into Severus’ face with equal fascination.

They must look like children, observing one another curiously, openly.

An accurate comparison, because Severus feels like he’s just been born, like he’s looking at the world for the very first time. He feels like he’s never met another human being before and is confronted with one for the first time. And he can only look at this strangely familiar being, so like him but so unlike him at once. And it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Harry reaches up, traces his jaw with his fingertips. Then he leans in to graze it with his lips, not quite kissing. Severus feels the hair rise all over his body at the touch.

 _I know you_ , he wants to say. _I shouldn’t, but I do. We’ve met before, in another life, I’m sure of it. How many times, I don’t know, but we’ve met…_

_Meeting you is the reason I’m here. The thing I’ve been waiting for. You were made for me. You were made to fill the hole in my life._

_You were severed from me at the beginning of time, and I’ve spent countless lives looking for you. And now you’re here…_

But he doesn’t say it. He just looks at Harry.

Saying I love you was enough. Saying any more now would just overwhelm him…

 _You’re mine, aren’t you?_ he wants to say.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he croaks out before he can stop himself.

“Yes,” Harry whispers against his mouth. “Fuck yes, I’m yours.”

He’s spoken quietly, but his words sound loud as thunder in the bedroom. They feel like the first words Severus has ever heard, the ones he’s been waiting to hear but didn’t even know he was. He was deaf before this moment.

“And you’re mine,” Harry says.

“Yes.”

Severus’ heart is pounding in his chest as he says it, but it’s okay. It’s a different kind of pounding. He takes deep breaths nonetheless.

He watches the sunlight spread on the ceiling, watches it all in silence as Harry curls up into his side, breathing softly, dozing off again.

 _I love you,_ Severus wants to say again, over and over. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

But he doesn’t speak. There’s no need to. Everything that needed to be said has been said. He can stay silent now, and just enjoy the moment. Live in this moment. It’ll be the first of so many, hopefully.

He breathes in deeply, in and out.

But it’s okay, he won’t panic. And if he ever does, he won’t need the hole in the wall anymore. There’s this tiny golden freckle under the pupil of Harry’s left eye. If it comes to that, it should do the job well enough.

Severus breathes in, buries his nose in Harry’s hair, watching the sunlight fill the room.

Yes, they’ll stay in bed all day. And then, tomorrow…

Tomorrow, everything begins.

 

* * *

 

 _And so the body of loneliness_  
_was covered from without,_  
_and from within_  
_the body of loneliness was embraced_.

LEONARD COHEN

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> — The Baudelaire quote is from “A Hemisphere in your hair” in _Paris Spleen_.
> 
> — The Bernini statue mentioned is “The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.”
> 
> — “Often, but a little at a time, like poor old Swann,” is a quote from _Swann’s Way_. Charles Swann’s father used to say he thought about his wife often but a little at a time because thinking about her was too painful but he couldn’t bear not to think about her at all.
> 
> — The painting Harry talks about is “The Lovers” from René Magritte.
> 
> — The quote from Anaïs Nin is from her diaries again.


End file.
